The history of the adventures of Joseph Andrews, and his friend Mr. Abraham Adams. Written in imitation of the manner of Cervantes, author of Don Quixote. / By Henry Fielding, Esq. ; In two volumes. Vol. I[-II].

THE HISTORY OF THE ADVENTURES, OF JOSEPH ANDREWS, and his Friend MR. ABRAHAM ADAMS.

BOOK I.

CHAP. I.

Of writing lives in general, and particularly of Pame|la; with a word by the bye of Colley Cibber and others.

IT is a trite but true observation, that examples work more forcibly on the mind than precepts: and if this be just in what is odious and blamea|ble, it is more strongly so in what is amiable and praise-worthy. Here emulation most effectually operates upon us, and inspires our imitation in an irresistable manner. A good man therefore is a standing lesson to all his acquaintance, and of far greater use in that narrow circle than a good book.

But as it often happens, that the best men are but little known, and consequently cannot extend the usefulness of their examples a gre•••• 〈◊〉〈◊〉; the

writer may be called in aid to spread their history farther, and to present the amiable pictures to those who have not the happiness of knowing the originals; and so, by communicating such valua|ble patterns to the world, he may, perhaps, do a more extensive service to mankind, than the per|son whose life originally afforded the pattern.

In this light I have always regarded those bio|graphers, who have recorded the actions of great an•• worthy persons of both sexes. Not to men|tion these ••••cient writers which of late days are little 〈◊〉〈◊〉 being written in absolete, and, as they are generally thought, unintelligible languages, such as Plutarch, Nepos, and others, which I heard of in my youth; our own language affords many of excellent use and instruction, finely calcu|lated to sow the seeds of virtue, in youth, and very easy to be comprehended by persons of moderate capacity. Such are the history of John the Great, who, by his brave and heroic actions against men of large and athletic bodies, obtained the glorious appellation of the Giant-killer; that of an earl of Warwick, whose christian name was Guy; the lives of Argalus and Parthenia; and, above all, the history of those seven worthy personages, the Champions of Christendom. In all these, delight is mixed with instruction, and the reader is al|most as much improved as entertained.

But I pass by these and many others, to mention two books lately published, which represent an ad|mirable pattern of the amiable in either sex. The former of these which deals in male-virtue, was written by the great person himself, who lived the life he hath recorded, and is by many thought to have lived such a life only in order to write it. The other, communicated to us by an historian

who borrows his lights, as the common method is, from authentic papers and records. The reader, I believe, already conjectures I mean the lives of Mr. Colley Cibber, and of Mrs. Pamela Andrews. How artfully doth the former, by insinuating that he escaped being promoted to the highest stations in church and state, teach us a contempt of world|ly grandeur! how strongly doth he inculcate an absolute submission to our superiors! Lastly, how completely doth he arm us against so uneasy, so wretched a passion as the fear of shame! how clearly doth he expose the emptiness and vanity of that phantom, reputation!

What the female readers are taught by the me|moirs of Mrs. Andrews, is so well set forth in the excellent essays or letters prefixed to the second and subsequent editions of that work, that it would be here a needless repetition. The authentic history with which I now present the public, is an in|stance of the great good that book is likely to do, and of the prevalence of example which I have just observed: since it will appear that it was by keeping the excellent pattern of his sister's virtues before his eyes, that Mr. Joseph Andrews was chiefly enabled to preserve his purity in the midst of such great temptations. I shall only add, that this character of male-chastity, though doubtless as desirable and becoming in one part of the human species, as in the other, is almost the only virtue which the great apologist hath not given himself, for the sake of giving the example to his readers.

CHAP. II.

Of Mr. Joseph Andrews, his birth, parentage, edu|cation, and great endowments; with a word or two concerning ancestors.

MR. Joseph Andrews, the hero of our ensuing history, was esteemed to be the only son of Gaffer and Gammer Andrews, and brother to the illustrious Pamela, whose virtue is at present so famous. As to his ancestors, we have searched with great diligence, but little success; being un|able to trace them farther than his great-grand|father, who, as an elderly person in the parish re|members to have heard his father say, was an ex|cellent cudgel-player. Whether he had any an|cestors before this, we must leave to the opinion of our curious reader, finding nothing of sufficient certainty to rely on. However, we cannot omit inserting an epitaph which an ingenious friend of ours hath communicated.

Stay, traveller, for underneath this pew Lies fast asleep that merry man Andrew; When the last day's great sun shall gild the skies, Then he shall from his tomb get up and rise. Be merry while thou can'st: for surely thou Shall shortly be as sad as he is now.

The words are almost out of the stone with anti|quity. But it is needless to observe that Andrew here is writ without an s and is, besides, a Chris|tian name. My friend moreover conjectures this to have been the founder of that sect of laughing philosophers, since called Merry Andrews.

To wave therefore a circumstance, which, though mentioned in conformity to the exact rules of bi|ography, is not greatly material; I proceed to things of more consequence. Indeed it is suffici|ently certain, that he had as many ancestors as the best man living; and perhaps, if we look five or six hundred years backwards, might be related to some persons of very great figure at present, whose ancestors within half the last century are buried in as great obscurity. But suppose, for argument's sake, we should admit that he had no ancestors at all, but had sprung up, according to the modern phrase, out of a dunghill, as the Athe|nians pretended they themselves did from the earth, would not this* 1.1 Autokopros have been justly en|titled to all the praise arising from his own vir|tues? Would it not be hard, that a man who hath no ancestors, should therefore be rendered incapa|ble of acquiring honour; when we see so many who have no virtues, enjoying the honour of their forefathers? At ten years old (by which time his education was advanced to writing and reading) he was bound an apprentice, according to the sta|tute, to Sir Thomas Booby, an uncle of Mr. Booby's by the father's side. Sir Thomas having an estate in his own hands, the young Andrew•• was at first employed in what in the country they call keeping birds. His office was to perform the part the ancients assigned to the god Priapus, which deity the moderns call by the name of Jack-o'Lent: but his voice being so extremely musical, that it rather allured the birds than terrified them, he was soon transplanted from the fields into the dog-ken|nel, where he was placed under the huntsman, and made what sportsmen term Whipper-in. For

this place likewise the sweetness of his voice dis|qualified him; the dogs preferring the melody of his chiding to all the alluring notes of the hunts|man, who soon became so incensed at it, that he desired Sir Thomas to provide otherwise for him; and constantly laid every fault the dogs were at, to the account of the poor boy, who was now trans|planted to the stable. Here he soon gave proofs of his strength and agility, beyond his years, and constantly rode the most spirited and vicious horses to water, with an intrepidity which surprized eve|ry one. While he was in this station, he rode se|veral races for Sir Thomas, and this with such ex|pertness and success, that the neighbouring gen|tlemen frequently solici••••d the knight to permit little Joey (for so he was called) to ride their match|es. The best gamesters, before they laid their money, always enquired which horse little Joey was to ride; and the bets were rather proportion|ed by the rider than by the horse himself; especi|ally after he had scornfully refused a considerable bribe to play booty on such an occasion. This ex|tremely raised his character, and so pleased the lady Booby, that she desired to have him (being now seventeen years of age) for her own foot-boy. Joey was now preferred from the stable to attend on his lady, to go on her errands, stand behind her chair, wait at her tea-table, and carry her prayer-book to church; at which place his voice gave him an opportunity of distinguishing himself by singing psalms: he behaved likewise in every other respect so well at divine service, that it recommended him, to the notice of Mr. Abraham Adams the curate, who took an opportunity one day, as he was drink|ing a cup of ale in Sir Thomas's kitchen, to ask the young man several questions concerning religion;

with his answers to which he was wonderfully pleased.

CHAP. III.

Of Mr. Abraham, Adams the curate, Mrs. Slipslop the chambermaid, and others.

MR. Abraham Adams was an excellent scholar. He was a perfect master of the Greek and Latin languages; to which he added a great share of knowledge in the Oriental tongues, and could read and translate French, Italian, and Spanish. He had applied many years to the most severe study, and had treasured up a fund of learning, rarely to be met with in a university. He was besides a man of good sense, good parts, and good nature; but was at the same time as entirely ignorant of the ways of this world, as an infant just entered into it could possibly be. As he had never any intention to de|ceive, so he never suspected such a design in others. He was generous, friendly, and brave to an excess; but simplicity was his characteristick: he did, no more than Mr. Colley Cibber, apprehend any such passions as malice and envy to exist in man|kind, which was indeed less remarkable in a coun|try parson, than in a gentleman who hath past his life behind the scenes a place which hath been sel|dom thought the school of innocence; and where a very little observation would have convinced the great apologist, that those passions have a real exist|ence in the human mind.

His virtue, and his other qualifications, as they rendered him equal to his office; so they made him an agreeable and valuable companion, and had so much endeared and well recommended him to a bi|shop,

that at the age of fifty, he was provided with a handsome income of twenty three pounds a year: which, however, he could not make any great figure with; because he lived in a dear county, and was a little incumbered with a wife and six children.

It was this gentleman, who having, as I have said, observed the singular devotion of young Andrews, had found means to question him concerning several particulars; as how many books there were in the New Testament? which were they? how many chapters they contained? and such like; to all which, Mr. Adams privately said, he answered much better than Sir Thomas, or two other neigh|bouring justices of the peace could probably have done.

Mr. Adams was wonderfully solicitous to know at what time, and by what opportunity the youth became acquainted with these matters: Joey told him, that he had very early learnt to read and write by the goodness of his father, who, though he had not interest enough to get him into a charity-school, because a cousin of his father's landlord did not vote on the right side for a church-warden in a borough|town, yet had been himself at the expence of six|pence a week for his learning. He told hi•• like|wise, that ever since he was in Sir Thomas's fami|ly, he had employed all his hours of leisure in read|ing good books; that he had read the Bible, the Whole Duty of Man, and Thomas a Kempis; and that as often as he could without being perceiv|ed, he had studied a great book which lay open in the hall-window, where he had read,

as how the devil carried away half a church in sermon-time, without hurting one of the congregation; and as how a field of corn ran away down a steep hill with all the trees upon it, and covered another

man's meadow.

This sufficiently assured Mr. Adams, that the good book meant could be no other than Baker's Chronicle.

The curate, surprized to find such instances of in|dustry and application in a young man, who had never met with the least encouragement, asked him, if he did not extremely regret the want of a liberal education, and the not having been born of parents, who might have indulged his talents and desire of knowledge? To which he answered

He hoped he had profited somewhat better from the books he had read, than to lament his condition in this world. That for his part, he was perfectly con|tent with the state to which he was called, that he should endeavour to improve his talent, which was all required of him, but not to repine at his own lot, nor envy those of his betters.

Well said, my lad, replied the curate, and I wish some who have read many more good books, nay, and some who have written good books themselves, had profited so much by them.

Adams had no nearer access to Sir Thomas or my lady, than through the waiting gentlewoman; for Sir Thomas was too apt to estimate men merely by their dress, or fortune; and my lady was a woman of gaiety, who had been bless'd with a town edu|cation, and never spoke of any of her country neigh|bours by any other appellation than that of the Brutes. They both regarded the curate as a kind of domestick only, belonging to the parson of the parish, who was at this time at variance with the knight; for the parson had for many years lived in a constant state of civil war, or, which is perhaps, as bad, of civil law, with Sir Thomas himself and the tenants of his manor. The foundation of this quarrel was a modus, by setting which aside, an ad|vantage

of several shillings per annum would have ac|crued to the rector: but he had not yet been able to accomplish his purpose; and had reaped hitherto nothing better from the suits than the pleasure (which he used indeed frequently to say was no small one) of reflecting that he had utterly undone many of the poor tenants, though he had at the same time great|ly impoverished himself.

Mrs. Slipslop the waiting-gentlewoman, being herself the daughter of a curate, preserved some re|spect, for Adams; she professed great regard for his learning, and would frequently dispute with him on points of theology: but always insisted on a defe|rence to be paid to her understanding, as she had been frequently at London, and knew more of the world than a country parson could pretend to.

She had in these disputes a particular advantage over Adams: for she was a mighty affecter of hard words, which she used in such a manner, that the parson, who durst not offend her by calling her words in question, was frequently at some loss to guess her meaning, and would have been much less puzzled by an Arabian manuscript.

Adams therefore took an opportunity one day, af|ter a pretty long discourse with her on the essence, (or, as she pleased to term it, the incence) of matter, to mention the case of young Andrews; desiring her to recommend him to her lady as a youth very susceptible of learning, and one whose instruction in Latin he would himself undertake; by which means he might be qualified for a higher station than that of a footman; and added, she knew it was in his master's power easily to provide for him in a better manner. He therefore desired, that the boy might be left behind, under his care.

"La, Mr. Adams," said Mrs. Slipslop,

do you,

think my lady will suffer any preamble about any such matter? She is going to London very con|cisely, and I am confidous would not leave Joey behind her on any account; for he is one of the genteelest young fellows you may see in a sum|mer's day, and I am confidous she would as soon think of parting with a pair of her grey mares; for she values herself as much on the one as the other.

Adams would have interrupted but she proceeded:

And why is Latin more necessitous for a footman than a gentleman? It is very pro|per that you clergymen must learn it, because you can't preach without it: but I have heard gentle|men say in London, that it is fit for nobody else. I am confidous my lady would be angry with me for mentioning it; and I shall draw myself into no such delemy.

At which words her lady's bell rung, and Mr. Adams was forced to retire; nor could he gain a second opportunity with her be|fore their London journey, which happened a few days afterwards. However, Andrews behaved very thankfully and gratefully to him for his intended kindness, which he told him he never would forget, and at the same time received from the good man many admonitions, concerning the regulation of his future conduct, and his perseverance in innocence and industry.

CHAP. IV.

What happened after their journey to London.

NO sooner was young Andrews arrived at Lon|don, than he began to scrape an acquain|tance with his party-coloured brethren who en|deavoured to make him despise his former course

of life. His hair was cut after the newest fashion, and became his chief care: he went abroad with it all the morning in papers, and dressed it out in the afternoon. They could not, however, teach him to game, swear, drink, nor any other genteel vice the town abounded with. He applied most of his leisure hours to music, in which he greatly improved himself; and became so perfect a con|noisseur in that art, that he led the opinion of all the other footmen at an opera, and they never condemned or applauded a single song contrary to his approbation, or dislike. He was a little too forward in riots at the play-houses and assem|blies: and when he attended his lady at church (which was but seldom) he behaved with less seem|ing devotion than formerly: however, if he was outwardly a pretty fellow, his morals remained entirely uncorrupted, though he was at the same time smarter and genteeler than any of the beaus in town, either in or out of livery.

His lady, who had often said of him that Joey was the handsomest and genteelest footman in the kingdom, but that it was pity he wanted spirit, began now to find that fault no longer; on the contrary, she was frequently heard to cry out, Ay, there is some life in this fellow. She plainly saw the effects which the town-air hath on the soberest constitutions. She would now walk out with him into Hyde-Park in a morning, and when tired, which happened almost every minute, would lean on his arm, and converse with him in great fami|liarity. Whenever she st••pt out of her coach, she would take him by the hand, and sometimes, for fear of stumbling, press it very hard; she admit|ted him to deliver messages at her bed-side in a morning, leer'd at him at table, and indulged him

in all those innocent freedoms which women of figure may permit without the least fully of their virtue.

But though their virtue remains unsullied, yet, now and then some small arrows will glance on the shadow of it, their reputation; and so it fell out to lady Booby, who happened to be walking arm-in-arm with Joey one morning in Hyde-Park, when lady Tittle and lady Tattle, came accident|ally by in their coach. Bless me, says lady Tittle, can I believe my eyes? Is that lady Booby? Sure|ly, says Tattle. But what makes you surprized? Why, is not that her footman, replied Tittle? At which Tittle laughed and cried, An old business, I assure you, is it possible you should not have heard it? The whole town hath known it this half year. The consequence of this interview was a whisper through a hundred visits, which were separately performed by the two ladies* 1.2 the same afternoon, and might have had a mischievous ef|fect, had it not been stopt by two fresh reputations which were published the day afterwards, and en|grossed the whole talk of the town.

But whatever opinion or suspicion the scanda|lous inclination of defamers might entertain of la|dy Booby's innocent freedoms, it is certain they made no impression on young Andrews, who ne|ver offered to encroach beyond the liberties which his lady allowed him. A behaviour which she imputed to the violent respect he preserved for her, and which served only to heighten a something she began to conceive, and which the next chapter will open a little farther.

CHAP. V.

The death of Sir Thomas Booby, with the affecti|onate and mournful behaviour of his widow, and the great purity of Joseph Andrews.

AT this time, an accident happened, which put a stop to those agreeable walks, which probably would have soon puffed up the che••ks of same, and caused her to blow her brazen trumpet through the town; and this was no other than the death of Sir Thomas Booby, who departing this life, left his disconsolate lady confined to her house, as closely as if she herself had been attacked by some violent disease. During the first six days the poor lady admitted none but Mrs. Slipslop, and three female friends, who made a party at cards: but on the seventh she ordered Joey, whom, for a good reason, we shall hereafter call JOSEPH, to bring up her tea-kettle. The lady being in bed, called Joseph to her, bade him sit down, and having accidentally laid her hand on his, she asked him, if he had ever been in love? Joseph answer|ed with some confusion, it was time enough for one so young as himself to think on such things. As young as you are, replied the lady, I am con|vinced you are no stranger to that passion; 'Come Joey,' says she, 'tell me truly, who is the happy 'girl whose eyes have made a conquest of you?' Joseph returned, that all the women he had ever seen, were equally indifferent to him. 'O then,'

said the lady,

you are a general lover. Indeed, you handsome fellows, like handsome women, are very long and difficult in fixing: but yet you shall never persuade me that your heart is so in|susceptible of affection; I rather impute what you say to your secrecy, a very commendable qua|lity, and what I am far from being angry with you for. Nothing can be more unworthy in a young man than to betray any intimacies with the Ladies.

'Ladies!' madam, said Joseph,

I am sure I never had the impudence to think of any that deserve that name.

Don't pretend to too much modesty, said she, for that sometimes may be impertinent: but pray, answer me this question. Suppose a lady should happen to like you; suppose she should prefer you to all your sex, and admit you to the same familiarities as you might have hoped for, if you had been born her equal, are you certain that no vanity could tempt you to discover her? Answer me honestly, Joseph; have you so much more sense, and so much more virtue, than your handsome young fellows generally have, who make no scruple of sacrificing our dear reputation to your pride, without considering the great obligation we lay on you, by our condescension and confidence? Can you keep a secret, my Joey?

"Madam, 'says he,

I hope your ladyship can't tax me with ever betraying the secrets of the family; and I hope, if you was to turn me away, I might have that character of you.

I don't intend to turn you away, Joey, said she, and sighed, I am afraid it is not in my power.

She then raised herself a little in her bed, and discovered one of the whit|est necks that ever was seen; at which Joseph blushed. 'La!' says she, in an affected surprize,

what am I doing? I have trusted myself with a man alone, naked in bed; suppose you should have any wicked intentions upon my honour, how should I defend myself?

Joseph protested that he never had the least evil design against her. 'No,' says she,

perhaps you may not call your designs wicked; and perhaps they are not so.

—He swore they were not.

You misunderstand me,

says she;

I mean, if they were against my honour, they may not be wicked; but the world calls them so. But, then, say you, the world will never know any thing of the matter; yet would not that be trusting to your secrecy? Must not my reputation be then in your power? Would you not then be my master?

Joseph begged her ladyship to be comforted; for that he would never imagine the least wicked thing against her, and that he had rather die a thousand deaths than give her any reason to suspect him. 'Yes,' said she,

I must have reason to suspect you. Are you not a man? and without vanity I may pre|tend to some charms. But perhaps you may fear I should prosecute you; indeed I hope you do; and yet heaven knows I should never have the confidence to appear before a court of justice; and you know, Joey, I am of a forgiving temper. Tell me, Joey, don't you think I should forgive you?

'Indeed, Madam,' says Joseph,

I will never do any thing to disoblige your ladyship.

'How,' says she,

do you think it would not dis|oblige me then? Do you think I would willing|ly suffer you?

I don't understand you, Madam,

says Joseph. 'Don't you?' said she,

then you either are a fool or pretend to be so; I find I was mistaken in you. So get you down stairs, and never let me see your face again: your pre|tended

innocence cannot impose on me.

'Ma|dam,' said Joseph,

I would not have your lady|ship think any evil of me. I have always endea|voured to be a dutiful servant both to you and my master.

'O thou villain!' answered my lady,

Why didst thou mention the name of that dear man, unless to torment me, to bring his precious memory to my mind,

(and then she burst into a fit of tears.)

Get thee from my sight, I shall never endure thee more.

At which words she turned away from him; and Joseph retreated from the room in a most disconsolate condition, and writ that letter, which the reader will find in the next chapter.

CHAP. VI.

How Joseph Andrews writ a letter to his sister Pamela.

To Mrs. Pamela Andrews, living with squire Booby.

Dear Sister,

SINCE I received your letter of your good lady's death, we have had a misfortune of the same kind in our family. My worthy mas|ter Sir Thomas died about four days ago; and, what is worse, my poor lady is certainly gone distracted. None of the servants expected her to take it so to heart, because they quarrelled al|most every day of their lives: but no more of that, because you know, Pamela, I never loved to tell the secrets of my master's family; but to be sure you must have known they never loved one another; and I have heard her ladyship wish his honour dead above a thousand times: but no

body knows what it is to lose a friend till they have lost him.

Don't tell any body what I write, because I should not care to have folks say I discover what passes in our family: but if it had not been so great a lady, I should have thought she had had a-mind to me. Dear Pamela, don't tell any body: but she ordered me to sit down by her bed-side, when she was in naked bed; and she held my hand, and talked exactly as a lady does to her sweet-heart in a stage-play, which I have seen in Covent-Garden, while she wanted him to be no better than he should be.

If Madam be mad, I shall not care for staying long in the family: so I heartily wish you could get me a place either at the squire's, or some o|ther neighbouring gentleman's, unless it be true that you are going to be married to parson Willi|ams, as folks talk, and then I should be very wil|ling to be his clerk: for which you know I am qualified, being able to read, and to set a psalm.

I fancy I shall be discharged very soon; and the moment I am, unless I hear from you, I shall return to my old master's country-seat, if it be only to see parson Adams, who is the best man in the world. London is a bad place, and there is so little good-fellowship, that the next-door neighbours don't know one another. Pray give my service to all friends that enquire for me; so I rest

Your loving brother, JOSEPH ANDREWS.

As soon as Joseph had sealed and directed this letter he walked down stairs, where he met Mrs. Slipslop, with whom we shall take this opportunity

to bring the reader a little better acquainted. She was a maiden gentlewoman of about forty-five years of age, who having made a small slip in her youth, had continued a good maid ever since. She was not at this time remarkably handsome; being very short, and rather too corpulent in body, and some|what red, with the addition of pimples in the face. Her nose was likewise rather too large, and her eyes too little; nor did she resemble a cow so much in her breath, as in two brown globes which she car|ried before her; one of her legs was also a little shorter than the other, which occasioned her to limp as she walked. This fair creature had long cast the eyes of affection on Joseph, in which she had not met with quite so good success as she probably wish|ed, tho', besides all the allurements of her native charms, she had given him tea, sweetmeats, wine, and many other delicacies, of which, by keeping the keys, she had the absolute command. Joseph, how|ever, had not returned the least gratitude to all these favours, not even so much as a kiss; tho' I would not insinuate she was so easily to be satisfied: for surely then he would have been highly blameable. The truth is, she was arrived at an age when she thought she might indulge herself in any liberties with a man, without the danger of bringing a third person into the world to betray them. She imagin|ed, that by so long a self-denial, she had not only made amends for the small slip of her youth above hinted at: but had likewise laid up a quantity of merit to excuse any future failings. In a word, she resolved to give a loose to her amorous inclina|tions, and to pay off the debt of pleasure she found she owed herself, as fast as possible.

With these charms of person, and in this dispo|sition of mind, she encountered poor Joseph at the

bottom of the stairs, and asked him if he would drink a glass of something good this morning. Joseph, whose spirits were not a little cast down, very rea|dily and thankfully accepted the offer; and together they went into a closet, where having delivered him a full glass of ratifia, and desired him to sit down, Mrs. Slipslop thus began:

Sure nothing can be a more simple contrast in a woman, than to place her affections on a boy. If I had ever thought it would have been my fate, I should have wished to die a thousand deaths ra|ther than live to see that day. If we like a man, the lightest hint sophisticates. Whereas a boy proposes upon us to break through all the regula|tions of modesty, before we can make any oppres|sion upon him.

Joseph, who did not understand a word she said, answered, 'Yes, Madam;—' 'Yes, Madam,' replied Mrs Slipslop, with some warmth,

Do you intend to result my passion? Is it not enough, ungrateful as you are, to make no return to all the favours I have done you: but you must treat me with ironing? Barbarous monster! how have I deserved that my passion should be re|sulted and treated with ironing?

'Madam,' an|swered Joseph,

I don't understand your hard words: but I am certain, you have no occasion to call me ungrateful: for so far from intending you any wrong, I always loved you as well as if you had been my own mother.

'How, sirrah!' says Mrs. Slipslop in a rage:

Your own mother? Do you assinuate that I am old enough to be your mother? I don't know what a strippling may think: but I believe a man would refer me to any greensickness silly girl whatsomdever: but I ought to despise you rather than be angry with you, for

referring the conversation of girls to that of a wo|man of sense.

'Madam,' says Joseph,

I am sure I have always valued the honour you did me by your conversation; for I know you are a wo|man of learning.

'Yes, but Joseph,' said she, a little softened by the compliment to her lear|ning,

If you had a value for me, you certainly would have found some method of shewing it me; for I am convicted you must see the value I have for you. Yes, Joseph, my eyes, whether I would or no, must have declared a passion I cannot con|quer.—Oh! Joseph!

As when a hungry tigress, who long has tra|versed the woods in fruitless search, sees within the reach of her claws a lamb, she prepares to leap on her prey; or as a voracious pike of immense size, sur|veys thro' the liquid element a roach or gudgeon, which cannot escape her jaws, opens them wide to swallow the little fish; so did Mrs. Slipslop prepare to lay her violent amorous hands on the poor Jo|seph, when luckily her mistress's bell rung, and de|livered the intended martyr from her clutches. She was obliged to leave him abruptly, and to defer the execution of her purpose till some other time. We shall therefore return to the lady Booby, and give our reader some account of her behaviour, after she was left by Joseph in a temper of mind not greatly different from that of the inflamed Slipslop.

CHAP. VII.

Sayings of wise men. A dialogue between the lady and her maid; and a panegyric, or rather satire, on the passion of love, in the sublime stile.

IT is the observation of some antient sage, whose name I have forgot, that passions operate diffe|rently on the human mind, as diseases on the body, in proportion to the strength or weakness, soundness or rottenness of the one and the other.

We hope therefore a judicious reader will give himself some pains to observe, what we have so greatly laboured to describe, the different operations of this passion of love in the gentle and cultivated mind of the lady Booby, from those which it effect|ed in the less polished and coarser disposition of Mrs. Slipslop.

Another philosopher, whose name also at present escapes my memory, hath somewhere said, that re|solutions taken in the absence of the beloved object, are very apt to vanish in its presence; on both which wise sayings, the following chapter may serve as a comment.

No sooner had Joseph left the room in the man|ner we had before related, than the lady, enraged at her disappointment, began to reflect with severity on her conduct. Her love was now changed to disdain, which pride assisted to torment her. She despised herself for the meanness of her passion, and Joseph for its ill success. However, she had now got the better of it in her own opinion, and deter|mined immediately to dismiss the object. After much tossing and turning in her bed, and many so|liloquies, which, if we had no better matter for our

reader, we would give him; she at last rung the bell as above-mentioned, and was presently attended by Mrs. Slipslop, who was not much better pleased with Joseph than the lady herself.

Slipslop, said lady Booby, when did you see Jo|seph? the poor woman was so surprized at the un|expected sound of his name, at so critical a time, that she had the greatest difficulty to conceal the confusion she was under, from her mistress; whom she answered, nevertheless, with pretty good confi|dence, though not entirely void of fear or suspicion, that she had not seen him that morning.

I am a|fraid,

said lady Booby,

he is a wild young fel|low.

'That he is,' said Slipslop,

and a wicket one too. To my knowledge he games, drinks, swears, and fights eternally: besides, he is horri|bly indicted to wenching.

'Ay!' said the lady,

I never heard that of him.

'O madam,' answer|ed the other,

he is so lewd a rascal, that if your ladyship keeps him much longer, you will not have one virgin in your house except myself. And yet I can't conceive what the wenches see in him, to be so foolishly fond as they are: in my eyes, he is as ugly a scarecrow as ever I upheld.

'Nay,' said the lady, 'the boy is well enough.'—

La, Ma'm, cries Slipslop, I think him the ragmatical|lest fellow in the family.

'Sure, Slipslop,' says she,

you are mistaken: but which of the women do you suspect?

'Madam,' says Slipslop,

there is Betty the chambermaid, I am almost convict|ed, is with child by him.

'Ay!' says the lady,

then pray pay her her wages instantly. I will keep no such sluts in my family.

And as for Joseph, you may discard him too.

Would your ladyship have him paid off immediately?

cries Slipslop,

for perhaps, when Betty is gone, he may

mend; and really the boy is a good servant, and a strong healthy, luscious boy enough.

This morning,

answered the lady with some vehe|mence. 'I wish Madam,' cries Slipslop,

your ladyship would be so good as to try him a little longer.

I will not have my commands disput|ed,

said the lady;

sure you are not fond of him yourself.

'I Madam?' cries Slipslop, reddening, if not blushing.

I should be sorry to think your ladyship had any reason to respect me of fondness for a fellow; and if it be your pleasure, I shall ful|fil it with as much reluctance as possible.

As little, I suppose you mean,

said the lady;

and so about it instantly.

Mrs. Slipslop went out, and the lady had scarce taken two turns, before she fell to knocking and ringing with great violence. Slip|slop, who did not travel post-haste, soon returned, and was countermanded as to Joseph, but ordered to send Betty about her business without delay. She went out a second time with much greater alacrity than before; when the lady began immediately to accuse herself of want of resolution, and to appre|hend the return of her affection with it's pernicious consequences: she therefore applied herself again to the bell, and resummoned Mrs. Slipslop into her presence; who again returned, and was told by her mistress, that she had considered better of the mat|ter, and was absolutely resolved to turn away Jo|seph; which she ordered her to do immediately. Slipslop, who knew the violence of her lady's tem|per, and would not venture her place for any Ado|nis or Hercules in the universe, left her a third time; which she had no sooner done, than the little god Cupid, fearing he had not yet done the lady's bu|siness, took a fresh arrow with the sharpest po•••• out of his quiver, and shot it directly into her

heart: in other and plainer language, the lady's passion got the better of her reason. She called back Slipslop once more, and told her, she had re|solved to see the boy, and examine him herself; therefore bid her send him up. This wavering in her mistress's temper probably put something into the waiting-gentlewoman's head, not necessary to mention to the sagacious reader.

Lady Booby was going to call her back again, but could not prevail with herself. The next con|sideration therefore was, how she should behave to Joseph when he came in. She resolved to preserve all the dignity of the woman of fashion to her servant, and to indulge herself in this last view of Joseph (for that she was most certainly re|solved it should be) at his own expence, by first insulting, and then discarding them.

O Love, what monstrous tricks dost thou play with thy votaries of both sexes! How dost thou deceive them, and make them deceive themselves! Their follies are thy delight! Their sighs make thee laugh, and their pangs are thy merriment!

Not the great Rich, who turns men into mon|keys, wheelbarrows, and whatever else best hu|mours his fancy, hath so strangely metamorphosed the human shape; nor the great Cibber, who con|founds all number, gender, and breaks thro' every rule of grammar at his will, hath so distorted the English, language, as thou dost metamorphose and distort the human senses.

Thou puttest out our eyes, stoppest up our ears, and takest away the power of our nostrils; so that we can neither see the largest object, hear the loudest noise, nor smell the most poignant per|fume. Again, when thou pleasest, thou canst make a mole-hill appear as a mountain; a Jew's

harp sound like a trumpet, and a daizy smell like a violet. Thou canst make cowardice, brave, ava|rice generous, pride humble, and cruelty, tender|hearted. In short, thou turnest the heart of man inside out, as a juggler doth a petticoat, and bring|est whatsoever pleaseth thee out from it. If there be any one who doubts all this, let him read the next chapter.

CHAP. VIII.

In which, after some very fine writing, the history goes on, and relates the interview between the lady and Joseph; where the latter hath set an example, which we despair of seeing followed by his sex, in this vicious age.

NOW the rake Hesperus had called for his breeches, and having well rubbed his drow|sy eyes, prepared to dress himself for all night; by whose example his brother rakes on earth like wise leave those beds, in which they had slept away the day. Now Thetis, the good housewife, be|gan to put on the pot in order to regale the good man Phoebus, after his daily labours were over. In vulgar language, it was in the evening when Joseph attended his lady's orders.

But as it becomes us to preserve the character of this lady, who is the heroine of our tale; and, as we have naturally a wonderful tenderness for that beautiful part of the human species, called the fair sex; before we discover too much of her frail|ty to our reader, it will be proper to give him a lively idea of the vast temptation, which overcame all the efforts of a modest and virtuous mind; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 then we humbly hope his good-nature will rather

pity than condemn the imperfection of human vir|tue.

Nay, the ladies themselves will, we hope, be in|duced, by considering the uncommon variety of charms, which united in this young man's person, to bridle their rampant passion for chastity, and be at least as mild as their violent modesty and virtue will permit them, in censuring the conduct of a woman, who, perhaps, was in her own dispositi|on as chaste as those pure and sanctified virgins, who, after a life innocently spent in the gaieties of the town, begin about fifty to attend twice per diem at the polite churches and chapels, to return thanks for the grace which preserved them formerly amongst beaus, from temptations perhaps less pow|erful than what now attack the lady Booby.

Mr. Joseph Andrews was now in the one and twentieth year of his age. He was of the highest degree of middle stature. His limbs were put to|gether with great elegance, and no less strength. His legs and thighs were formed in the exactest proportion. His shoulders were broad and braw|ny; but yet his arms hung so easily, that he had all the symptoms of strength without the least clum|siness. His hair was of a nut-brown colour, and was displayed in wanton ringlets down his back. His forehead was high, his eyes dark, and as full of sweetness as of fire. His nose a little inclined to the Roman. His tee•••• white and ••en. His lips full, red, and soft. ••is beard was only rough on his chin and upper lip; but his cheeks, in which his blood glowed, were overspread with a thick down. His countenance had a tenderness joined with a sensibility inexpressible. Add to this the most perfect neatness in his dress, and an air,

which to those who have not seen many noblemen, would give an idea of nobility.

Such was the person who now appeared before the lady. She viewed him some time in silence, and twice or thrice before she spake, changed her mind as to the manner in which she should begin. At length, she said to him,

Joseph, I am sorry to hear such complaints against you; I am told you behave so rudely to the maids, that they cannot do their business in quiet; I mean those who are not wicked enough to hearken to your solicitations. As to others, they may perhaps not call you rude: for there are wicked sluts who make one ashamed of one's own sex; and are as ready to admit any nauseous familiarity as fellows to offer it; nay, there are such in my family; but they shall not stay in it; that impudent trollop, who is with child by you, is discharged by this time.

As a person who is struck through the heart with a thunderbolt, looks extremely surprised, nay, and perhaps is so too—thus the poor Joseph received the false accusation of his mistress; he blushed and looked confounded, which she misinterpreted to be symptoms of his guilt and thus went on:

Come hither, Joseph: another mistress might discard you for these offences; but I have com|passion for your youth, and if I could be certain you would, be no more guilty—Consider, child, (laying her hand carelesly upon his) you are a handsome young fellow, and might do better; you might make your fortune.

—

Madam, said Jo|seph, I do assure your ladyship, I don't know whe|ther any maid in the house is man or woman. Oh fie! Joseph

answered the lady,

don't com|mit another crime in denying the truth. I could pardon the first; but I hate a lyar.

'Madam

cries Joseph,

I hope your ladyship will not be of|fended at my asserting my innocence: for by all that is sacred, I have never offered more than kis|sing.

'Kissing!' said the lady with great dis|composure of countenance, and more redness in her cheeks, than anger in her eyes,

do you call that no crime? kissing, Joseph, is as a prologue to a play. Can I believe a young fellow of your age and complexion will be content with kissing? No, Jo|seph, there is no woman who grants that, but will grant more; and I am deceived greatly in you, if you would not put her closely to it. What would you think, Joseph, if I admitted you to kiss me?

Joseph reply'd,

he would sooner die than have any such thought.

'And yet, Joseph,' returned she,

ladies have admitted their footmen to such famili|arities; and footmen, I confess to you much less deserving them; fellows without half your charms: for such might almost excuse the crime. Tell me therefore, Joseph, if I should admit you to such freedoms, what would you think of me?—tell me freely.

'Madam,' said Joseph,

I should think your ladyship condescended a great deal be|low yourself.

'Pugh!' said she,

that I am to answer to myself: but would not you insist on more? Would you be contented with a kiss? Would not your inclinations be all on fire rather by such a favour?

'Madam,' said Joseph,

if they were, I hope I should be able to controul them, without suffering them to get the better of my virtue.

—You have heard, reader, poets talk of the statue of surprize; you have heard likewise, or else you have heard very little, how surprize made one of the sons of Croesus speak tho' he was dumb. You have seen the faces, in the eighteen-penny gal|lery, when through the trap-door, to soft or no mu|sick,

Mr. Bridgwater, Mr. William Mills, or some other of ghostly appearance, hath ascended with a face all pale with powder, and a shirt all bloody with ribands; but from none of these, nor from Phidias, or Praxiteles, if they should return to life—no, not from the inimitable pencil of my friend Hogarth, could you receive such an idea of surprize, as would have entered in at your eyes, had they be|held the lady Booby, when those last words issued out from the lips of Joseph.—'Your virtue! (said the lady recovering after a silence of two minutes)

I shall never survive it. Your virtue! Intolerable confidence! Have you the assurance to pretend, that when a lady demeans herself to throw aside the rules of decency, in order to honour you with the highest favours in her power, your virtue should resist her inclination? that when she had conquer|ed her own virtue, she should find an obstruction in yours?

'Madam,' said Joseph,

I can't see why her having no virtue should be a reason a|gainst my having any: Or why, because I am a man, or because I am poor, my virtue must be sub|servient to her pleasures.

I am out of pati|ence,

cries the lady:

Did ever mortal hear of a man's virtue! Did ever the greatest or the gravest men pretend to any of this kind! Will magi|strates who punish lewdness, or parsons who preach against it, make any scruple, of committing it? And can a boy, a stripling have the confi|dence to talk of his vir••ue?

'Madam,' says Jo|seph,

that boy is the brother of Pamela, and would be ashamed that the chastity of his family, which is preserved in her, should be stained in him. If there are such men as your ladyship mentions, I am sorry for it; and I wish they had an opportu|nity of reading over those letters, which my father

hath sent me of my sister Pamela's; nor do I doubt but such an example would amend them.

You impudent villain,

cries the lady in a rage,

do you insult me with the follies of my relation, who hath exposed himself all over the country up|on your sister's account? a little vixen, whom I have always wondered my late lady Booby ever kept in her house. Sirrah! get out of my sight, and prepare to set out this night; for I will order you your wages immediately, and you shall be stripped and turned away.

—'Madam,' says Jo|seph,

I am sorry I have offended your ladyship, I am sure I never intended it.

'Yes, sirrah,' cries she,

you have had the vanity to misconstru•• the lit|tle innocent freedom I took in order to try, whe|ther what I heard was true. O' my conscience, you have had the assurance to imagine, I was fond of you myself.

Joseph answered, he had only spoke out of tenderness for his virtue; at which words she flew into a violent passion, and, refusing to hear more, ordered him instantly to leave the room.

He was no sooner gone, than she burst forth into the following exclamation;

Whither doth this vi|olent passion hurry us? What meannesses do we submit to from its impulse? Wisely we resist its first and least approaches; for it is then only we can assure ourselves the victory. No woman could ever safely say, so far only will I go. Have I not exposed myself to the refusal of my footman? I cannot bear the reflection.

Upon which she ap|plied herself to the bell, and rung it with infinite more violence than was necessary; the faithful S••ip|slop attending near at hand: To say the truth, she had conceived a suspicion at her last interview with her mistress; and had waited ever since in the anti|chamber, having carefully applied her ears to the

key-hole during the whole time that the preceding conversation passed between Joseph and the lady.

CHAP. IX.

What passed between the lady and Mrs. Slipslop, in which we prophecy there are some strokes which eve|ry one will not truly comprehend at the first reading.

SLIPSLOP, said the lady, I find too much reason to believe all thou hast told me of this wicked Joseph; I have determined to part with him instantly; so go you to the steward, and bid him pay him his wages.

Slipslop, who had pre|served hitherto a distance to her lady, rather out of necessity than inclination, and who thought the knowledge of this secret had thrown down all dis|tinction between them, answered her mistress ve|ry pertly,

She wished she knew her own mind; and that she was certain she would call her back again, before she was got half-way down stairs.

The lady replied,

she had taken a resolution, and was resolved to keep it.

'I am sorry for it', cries Slipslop;

and if I had known you would have punished the poor lad so severely, you should never have heard a particle of the matter. Here's a fuss, indeed, about nothing

'Nothing!' re|turned my lady;

Do you think I will counte|nance lewdness in my house?

If you will turn away every footman,

said Slipslop,

that is a lover of the sport, you must soon open the coach|door yourself, or get a set of mophrodites to wait upon you; and I am sure I hated the sight of them even singing in an opera.

'Do as I bid you', says my lady,

and don't shock my ears, with your beastly language.

'Marry-come-up,' cries Slip|slop,

People's ears are sometimes the nicest part about them.

The lady, who began to admire the new style in which her waiting-gentlewoman delivered her|self, and by the conclusion of her speech, suspect|ed somewhat of the truth, called her back, and de|sired to know what she meant by the extraordinary degree of freedom in which she thought proper to indulge her tongue. 'Freedom!' says Slipslop,

I don't know what you call freedom! Madam; servants have tongues as well as their mistresses. Yes, and saucy ones too, answered the lady; but I assure you I shall bear no such impertinence. Impertinence! I don't know that I am imper|tinent,

says Slipslop. 'Yes indeed you are,' cries my lady;

and unless you mend your man|ners, this house is no place for you.

Man|ners!

cries Slipslop,

I never was thought to want manners nor modesty neither; and for places, there are more places than one; and I know what I know.

What do you know, mistress?

answered the lady.

I am not oblig|ed to tell that to every body,

says Slipslop, any more than I am obliged to keep it a secret.' I desire you would provide yourself, answered the lady. 'With all my heart,' replied the waiting|gentlewoman; and so departed in a passion, and slapped the door after her.

The lady too plainly perceived that her waiting|gentlewoman knew more than she would wil|lingly have had her acquainted with; and this she imputed to Joseph's having discovered to her what passed at the first interview. This therefore blew up her rage against him, and confirmed her in a resolution of parting with him.

But the dismissing Mrs. Slipslop was a point not so ea••y to be resolved upon: she had the utmost,

tenderness for her reputation, as she knew on that depended many of the most valuable blessings of life; particularly cards, making curt'sies in pub|lic places, and, above all, the pleasure of demolish|ing the reputations of others, in which innocent amusement she had an extraordinary delight. She therefore determined to submit to any insult from a servant, rather than run a risk of losing the title to so many great privileges.

She therefore sent for her steward, Mr. Peter Pounce; and ordered him to pay Joseph his wages, to strip off his livery, and turn him out of the house that evening.

She then called Slipslop up, and after refreshing her spirits with a small cordial which she kept in her closet, she began in the following manner:

Slipslop, why will you, who know my passi|onate temper, attempt to provoke me by your answers? I am convinced you are an honest ser|vant, and should be very unwilling to part with you. I believe likewise you have found me an indulgent mistress on many occasions, and have as little reason on your side to desire a change. I can't help being surprized therefore, that you will take the surest method to offend me: I mean repeating my words, which you know I have al|ways detested.

The prudent waiting-gentlewoman had duly weighed the whole matter, and found on mature deliberation, that a good place in possession was better than one in expectation. As she found her mistress therefore inclined to relent, she thought proper also to put on some small condescension; which was as readily accepted: and so the affair was reconciled, all offences forgiven, and a present of a gown and petticoat made her as an instance of her lady's future favour.

She offered once or twice to speak in favour of Jo|seph: but found her lady's heart so obdurate, that she prudently dropt all such efforts. She consider|ed there were some more footmen in the house, and some as stout fellows, tho' not quite so handsome as Joseph: besides, the reader hath already seen her ten|der advances had not met with the encouragement she might have reasonably expected. She thought she had thrown away a great deal of sack and sweet|meats on an ungrateful ra|scal; and being a little in|clined to the opinion of that female sect, who hold one lusty young fellow to be near as good as another lusty young fellow, she at last gave up Joseph and his cause, and with a triumph over her passion high|ly commendable, walked off with her present, and with great tranquility paid a visit to a stone-bottle, which is of sovereign use to a philosophical temper.

She left not her mistress so easy. The poor lady could not reflect without agony, that her dear repu|tation was in the power of her servants. All her comfort, as to Joseph, was, that she hoped he did not understand her meaning; at least, she could say for herself, she had not plainly express'd any thing to him; and as to Mrs. Slipslop, she imagined she could bribe her to secrecy.

But what hurt her most was, that in reality she had not so entirely conquered her passion; the little god lay lurking in her heart, tho' anger and disdain so hoodwinked her, that she could not see him. She was a thousand times on the very brink of revoking the sentence she had passed against the poor youth. Love became his advocate, and whispered many things in his favour. Honour likewise endeavour|ed to vindicate his crime, and pity to mitigate his punishment; on the other side, pride and revenge spoke as loudly against him; and thus the poor lady

was tortured with perplexity, opposite passions dis|tracting and tearing her mind different ways.

So I have seen, in the hall of Westminster, where serjeant Bramble hath been retained on the right side, and serjeant Puzzle on the left, the balance of opinion (so equal were their ••ees) alternately incline to either scale. Now Bramble throws in an argu|ment, and Pu••••••e's scale strikes the beam; again, Bramble shares the like fate, overpowered by the weight of Puzzle. Her Bramble hits, there Puz|zle strikes; here one has you, there t'other has you, 'till at last all becomes one scene of confusion in the tortured minds of the hearers; equal wagers are laid on the success, and neither judge nor jury can possibly make any thing of the matter; all things are so enveloped by the careful serjeants in doubt and obscurity.

Or as it happens in the conscience, where ho|nour and honesty pull one way, and a bribe and ne|cessity another.—If it was our present business only to make similies, we could produce many more to this purpose: but a simile (as well as a word) to the wise. We shall therefore see a little after our hero, for whom the reader is doubtless in some pain.

CHAP. X.

Joseph writes another letter: His transactions with Mr. Peter Pounce, &c. with his departure from lady Booby.

THE disconsolate Joseph would not have had a•• understanding sufficient for the principal sub|ject of such a book as this, if he had any longer mis|understood the drift of his mistress; and indeed that he did not discern it sooner, the reader will be pleased

to apply to an unwillingness in him to discover what he must condemn in her as a fault. Having there|fore quitted her presence, he retired into his own garret, and entered himself into an ejaculation on the numberless calamities which attended beauty, and the misfortune it was to be handsomer than one's neighbours.

He then sat down and addressed himself to his sis|ter Pamela, in the following words:

Dear sister Pamela,

HOPING you are well, what news have I to tell you! O Pamela, my mistress is fal|len in love with me—That is, what great folks call falling in love, she has a mind to ruin me; but I hope I shall have more resolution and more grace than to part with my virtue to any lady upon earth.

Mr. Adams hath often told me, that chastity is as great a virtue in a man as in a woman. He says he never knew any more than his wife, and I shall endeavour to follow his example. Indeed, it is owing entirely to his excellent sermons and advice, together with your letters, that I have been able to resist a temptation, which he says no man complies with, but he repents in this world, or is damned for it in the next; and why should I trust to repentance on my death-bed, since I may die in my sleep? What fine things are good advice and good examples! But I am glad she turned me out of the chamber as she did: for I had once almost forgotten every word parson A|dams had ever said to me.

I don't doubt, dear sister, but you will have grace to preserve your virtue against all trials; and I beg you earnestly to pray, I may be enabled

to preserve mine; for truly it is very severely at|tacked by more than one: but, I hope I shall co|py your example, and that of Joseph my name|sake: and maintain my virtue against all tempta|tions.

Joseph had not finished his letter, when he was summoned down stairs by Mr. Peter Pounce, to re|ceive his wages; for, besides that out of eight pounds a year he allowed his father and mother four, he had been obliged, in order to furnish himself with mu|sical instruments, to apply to the generosity of the aforesaid Peter, who on urgent occasions, used to advance the servants their wages: not before they were due, but before they were payable; that is, perhaps, half a year after they were due, and this at the moderate praemium of fifty per cent▪ or a little more; by which charitable methods, together with lending money to other people, and even to his own master and mistress, the honest man had from no|thing, in a few years amassed a small sum of twenty thousand pounds or thereabouts.

Joseph having received his little remainder of wa|ges, and having stript off his livery, was forced to borrow a frock and breeches of one of the servants: (for he was so beloved in the family, that they would all have lent him any thing) and being told by Pe|ter, that he must not stay a moment longer in the house than was necessary to pack up his linen, which he easily did in a very narrow compass; he took a very melancholy leave of his fellow-servants, and set out at seven in the evening.

He had proceeded the length of two or three streets, before he absolutely determined with him|self, whether he should leave the town that night, or, procuring, a lodging, wait till the morning. At last, the moon shining very bright helped him to come

to a resolution of beginning his journey immediate|ly, to which likewise he had some other induce|ments; which the reader, without being a conjurer, cannot possibly guess, till we have given him those hints, which it may be now proper to open.

CHAP. XI.

Of several new matters not expected.

IT is an observation sometimes made, that to in|dicate our idea of a simple fellow, we say, he is easily to be seen through: Nor do I believe it a more improper denotation of a simple book. Instead of applying this to any particular performance, we chuse rather to remark the contrary in this history, where the scene opens itself by small degrees; and he is a saga ous reader who can see two chapters before him.

For this reason we have not hitherto hinted a matter which now seems necessary to be explained; since it may be wondered at, first, that Joseph made such extraordinary haste out of town, which hath been already shewn; and secondly, which will be now shewn, that instead of proceeding to the habitation of his father and mother, or to his beloved sister Pa|mela, he chose rather to set out full speed to the lady Booby's country seat, which he had left on his jour|ney to London.

Be it known then, that in the same parish where this seat stood, there lived a young girl whom Joseph (tho' the best of sons and brothers) longed more im|patiently to see than his parents or his sister. She was a poor girl, who had formerly been bred up in Sir John's family; whence, a little before the jour|ney to London, she had been discarded by Mrs.

Slipslop on account of her extraordinary beauty: for I never could find any other reason.

This young creature (who now lived with a far|mer in the parish) had been always beloved by Jo|seph, and returned his affection. She was two years only younger than our hero. They had been ac|quainted from their infancy, and had conceived a very early liking for each other, which had grown to such a degree of affection, that Mr. Adams had with much ado prevented them from marrying, and persuaded them to wait, till a few years service and thrift had a little improved their experience, and en|abled them to live comfortably together.

They followed this good man's advice, as indeed his word was little less than a law in his parish; for as he had shewn his parishoners by an uniform be|haviour of thirty-five years duration, that he had their good entirely at heart; so they consulted him on every occasion, and very seldom acted contrary to his opinion.

Nothing can be imagined more tender than was the parting between these two lovers. A thousand sighs heaved the bosom of Joseph; a thousand tears distilled from the lovely eyes of Fanny, (for that was her name) tho' her modesty would only suffer her to admit his eager kisses, her violent love made her more than passive in his embraces; and she often pulled him to her breast with a soft pressure, which tho' perhaps it would not have squeezed an insect to death, caused more emotion in the heart of Jo|seph, than the closest Cornish hug could have done.

The reader may perhaps wonder, that so fond a pair should during a twelvemonth's absence never converse with one another; indeed there was but one reason which did, or could have prevented them; and this was, that poor Fanny could neither

write nor read; nor could she be prevailed upon to transmit the delicacies of her tender and chaste pas|sion, by the hands of an amanuensis.

They contented themselves therefore with fre|quent enquiries after each other's health, with a mutual confidence in each other's fidelity, and the prospect of their future happiness.

Having explained these matters to our reader, and, as far as possible, satisfied all his doubts, we return to honest Joseph, whom we left just set out on his travels by the light of the moon.

Those who have read any romance or poetry an|tient or modern, must have been informed, that love hath wings; by which they are not to understand, as some young ladies by mistake have done, that a lover can fly; the writers, by this ingenious allego|ry, intended to insinuate no more, than that lovers do not march like horse-guards; in short, that they put the best leg foremost; which our lusty youth, who could walk with any man, did so heartily on this occasion, that within four hours, he reached a famous house of hospitality well known to the west|ern traveller. It presents you a lion on a sign-post: and the master, who was christened Timotheus, is commonly called plain Tim. Some hath conceived that he hath particularly chosen the lion for his sign, as he doth in countenance greatly resemble that mag|nanimous beast, tho' his disposition favours more of the sweetness of the lamb. He is a person well re|ceived among all sorts of men, being qualified to render himself agreeable to any; as he is well ver|sed in history and politicks, hath a smattering in law and divinity, cracks a good jest, and plays won|derfully well on the French horn.

A violent storm of hail forced Joseph to take shel|ter in this inn, where he remembered Sir Thomas

had dined in his way to town. Joseph had no soon|er seated himself by the kitchen fire, than Timothe|us, observing his livery, began to condole the loss of his late master; who was, he said, his very parti|cular and intimate acquaintance, with whom he had cracked many a merry bottle, aye many a dozen in his time. He then remarked, that all those things were over now, all past, and just as if they had never been; and concluded with an excellent observation on the certainty of death, which his wife said was indeed very true. A fellow now arrived at the same inn with two horses, one of which he was leading farther down into the country to meet his master; these he put into the stable, and came and took his place by Joseph's side, who immediately knew him to be the servant of a neighbouring gentleman, who used to visit at their house.

This fellow was likewise forced in by the storm; for he had orders to go twenty miles farther that evening, and luckily on the same road which Jo|seph himself intended to take. He therefore em|braced this opportunity of complimenting his friend with his master's horses, (notwithstanding he had received express commands to the contra|ry) which was readily accepted, and so after they had drank a loving pot, and the storm was over, they set out together.

CHAP. XII.

Containing many surprizing adventures which Joseph Andrews met with on the road, scarce credible to those who have never travelled in a stage-coach.

NOTHING remarkable happened on the road, till their arrival at the inn to which the hor|ses

were ordered; whither they came about two in the morning. The moon then shone very bright; and Joseph making his friend a present of a pint of wine, and thanking him for the favour of his horse, notwithstanding all entreaties to the contrary, proceeded on his journey on foot.

He had not gone above two miles, charmed with the hopes of shortly seeing his beloved Fanny, when he was met by two fellows in a narrow lane, and ordered to stand and deliver. He readily gave them all the money he had, which was somewhat less than two pounds; and told them he hoped they would be so generous as to return him a few shil|lings, to defray his charges on his way home.

One of the ruffians answered with an oath, yes, we'll give you something presently: but first strip and be d—n'd to you.—Strip, cry'd the other, or I'll blow your brains to the devil. Joseph re|membering that he had borrowed his coat and breeches of a friend, and that he should be asham|ed of making any excuse for not returning them, replied, he hoped they would not insist on his cloaths, which were not worth much, but consider the coldness of the night. You are cold, are you, you rascal! says one of the robbers, I'll warm you with a vengeance; and damning his eyes, snapt a pis|tol at his head: which he had no sooner done, than the other levelled a blow at him with his stick, which Joseph, who was expert at cudgel-playing, caught with his, and returned the favour so suc|cessfully on his adversary, that he laid him spraw|ling at his feet, and at the same instant received a blow from behind, with the but-end of a pistol from the other villain, which felled him to the ground, and totally deprived him of his senses.

The thief, who had been knocked down, had

now recovered himself; and both together fell to belabouring poor Joseph with their sticks, till they were convinced they had put an end ••o his misera|ble being: They then stript him entirely naked, threw him into a ditch, and departed with their booty.

The poor wretch, who lay motionless a long time, just began to recover his senses as a stage|coach came by. The postilion hearing a man's groans, stopt his horses, and told the coachman, he was certain there was a dead man lying in the ditch; for he heard him groan. 'Go on, sirrah,' says the coachman,

we are confounded late, and have no time to look after dead men.

A lady, who heard what the postilion said, and like|wise heard the groan, called eagerly to the coach|man, to stop and see what was the matter. Upon which he bid the postilion alight, and look into the ditch. He did so, and returned,

That there was a man sitting upright as naked as ever he was born.—O J—sus,

cry'd the lady,

A naked man! Dear coachman, drive on and leave him.

Upon this the gentlemen got out of the coach; and Joseph begged them to have mercy upon him: For that he had been robbed, and almost beaten to death. 'Robbed,' cries an old gentleman;

Let us make all the haste imaginable, or we shall be robbed too.

A young man who belonged to the law answered,

He wished they had passed by with|out taking any notice; but that now they might be proved to have been last in his company; if he should die, they might be called to some ac|count for his murder. He therefore thought it advisable to save the poor creature's life, for their own sakes, if possible; at least, if he died, to prevent the jury's finding that they fled for it.

He was therefore of opinion, to take the man in|to the coach, and carry him to the next inn.

The lady insisted,

That he should not come into the coach. That if they lifted him in, she would herself alight: for she had rather stay in that place to all eternity, than ride with a naked man.

The coachman objected,

That he could not suf|fer him to be taken in, unless somebody would pay a shilling for his carriage the four miles.

which the two gentlemen refused to do. But the lawyer, who was afraid of some mischief happen|ing to himself if the wretch was left behind in that condition, saying, no man could be too cauti|ous in these matters, and that he remembered very extraordinary cases in the books, threatened the coachman, and bid him deny taking him up at his peril; for that if he died, he should be indicted for his murder; and if he lived, and brought an acti|on against him, he would willingly take a brief in it. These words had a sensible effect on the coach|man, who was well acquainted with the person who spoke them; and the old gentleman above|mentioned, thinking the naked man would afford him frequent opportunities of shewing his wit to the lady, offered to join with the company in giv|ing a mug of beer for his fare; till partly alarmed by the threats of the one, and partly by the pro|mises of the other, and being, perhaps, a little moved with compassion at the poor creature's con|dition, who stood bleeding and shivering with the cold, he at length agreed; and Joseph was now advancing to the coach, where, seeing the lady, who held the sticks of her fan before her eyes, he absolutely refused, miserable as he was, to enter, unless he was furnished with sufficient covering, to prevent giving the least offence to decency. So

perfectly modest was this young man; such migh|ty effects had the spotless example of the amiable Pamela, and the excellent sermons of Mr. Adams, wrought upon him.

Though there were several great coats about the coach, it was not easy to get over the difficulty which Joseph had started. The two gentlemen complained they were cold, and could not spare a rag; the man of wit saying, with a laugh, that charity began at home; and the coachman, who had two great coats spread under him, refused to lend either, lest they should be made bloody; the lady's footman desired to be excused for the same reason, which the lady herself, notwithstanding her abhorrence of a naked man, approved; and it is more than probable, poor Joseph, who obstinate|ly adhered to his modest resolution, must have pe|rished, unless the postilion, (a lad who hath been since transported for robbing a henroost) had vo|luntarily stript off a great coat, his only garment, at the same time swearing a great oath (for which he was rebuked by the passengers)

That he would rather ride in his shirt all his life, than suffer a fel|low-creature to lie in so miserable a condition.

Joseph, having put on the great coat, was lifted into the coach, which now proceeded on its jour|ney. He declared himself almost dead with the cold, which gave the man of wit an occasion to ask the lady, if she could not accommodate him with a dram. She answered with some resent|ment,

She wondered at his asking her such a question; but assured him she never tasted any such thing.

The lawyer was enquiring into the circumstan|ces of the robbery, when the coach stopt, and one of the ruffians putting a pistol in, demanded their

money of the passengers; who readily gave it them; and the lady, in her fright, delivered up a little silver bottle, of about a half pint size, which the rogue, clapping it to his mouth, and drinking her health, declared it held some of the best Nan|tes he had ever tasted: this the lady afterwards assured the company was the mistake of her maid; for that she had ordered her to fill the bottle with Hungary-water.

As soon as the fellows were departed, the law|yer, who had, it seems, a case of pistols in the seat of the coach, informed the company, that if it had been day-light, and he could have come at his pistols, he would not have submitted to the robbe|ry; he likewise set forth, that he had often met highwaymen when he travelled on horseback, but none ever durst attack him; concluding, that if he had not been more afraid for the lady than for himself, he should not have now parted with his money so easily.

As wi•• is generally observed to love to reside in empty pockets, so the gentleman, whose ingenuity we have above remarked, as soon as he had parted with his money, began to grow wonderfully face|tious. He made frequent allusions to Adam and Eve, and said many excellent things on figs, and fig-leaves; which, perhaps, gave more offence to Joseph than to any other in the company.

The lawyer likewise made several very pretty jests, without departing from his profession, He said,

If Joseph and the lady were alone, he would be more capable of making a conveyance to her, as his affairs were not fettered with any incum|brance; he'd warrant, he soon suffered a recove|ry by a writ of entry, which was the proper way to create heirs in tail; that for his own part, he

would engage to make so firm a settlement in a coach, that there should be no danger of an eject|ment;

with an inundation of the like gibberish, which he continued to vent till the coach arrived at an inn, where one servant-maid only was up in readiness to attend the coachman, and furnish him with cold meat and a dram. Joseph desired to alight, and that he might have a bed prepared for him, which the maid readily promised to perform; and being a good-natured wench, and not so sque|mish as the lady had been, she clapt a large faggot on the fire, and furnishing Joseph with a great coat belonging to one of the hostlers, desired him to sit down and warm himself, whilst she made his bed. The coachman, in the mean time, took an opportunity to call up a surgeon, who lived within a few doors: after which, he reminded his pas|sengers how late they were, and after they had ta|ken leave of Joseph, hurried them off as fast as he could.

The wench soon got Joseph to bed, and promised to use her interest to borrow him a shirt; but ima|gined, as she afterwards said, by his being so bloo|dy, that he must be a dead man: she ran with all speed to hasten the surgeon, who was more than half drest, apprehending that the coach had been overturned and some gentleman or lady hurt. As soon as the wench had informed him at his win|dow, that it was a poor foot-passenger who had been stript of all he had, and almost murdered; he chid her for disturbing him so early, slipped off his clothes again, and very quietly returned to bed and to sleep.

Aurora now began to show her blooming cheeks over the hills, whilst ten millions of feathered songsters, in jocund chorus, repeated, odes a thou|sand

times sweeter than those of our laureat, and sung both the day and the song; when the master of the inn, Mr. Tow-wouse, arose, and learning from his maid an account of the robbery, and the situation of his poor naked guest, he shook his head, and cried, good lack-a-day! and then ordered the girl to carry him one of his own shirts.

Mrs. Tow-wouse was just awake, and had stretch|ed out her arms in vain to fold her departed hus|band, when the maid entered the room.

Who's there? Betty?

'Yes, Madam.'

Where's your master?

He's without, Madam; he hath sent me for a shirt to lend a poor naked man, who hath been robbed and murdered.

Touch one, if you dare, you slut,

said Mrs. Tow-wouse;

your master is a pretty sort of a man to take in naked vagabonds, and clothe them with his own clothes. I shall have no such doings.—If you offer to touch any thing, I'll throw the chamber-pot at your head. Go, send your master to me,

'Yes, Madam,' answered Betty. As soon as he came in, she thus began:

What the devil do you mean by this, Mr. Tow-wouse? Am I to buy shirts to lend to a set of scabby rascals?

My dear, said Mr. Tow|wouse this is a poor wretch.

'Yes' says she,

I know, it is a poor wretch; but what the devil have we to do with poor wretches? the law makes us provide for too many already. We shall have thirty or forty poor wretches in red coats shortly.

'My dear,' cries Tow-wouse, this man hath been robbed of all he hath' Well then,' says she,

where's his money to pay his reckoning? Why doth not such a fellow go to an ale-house? I shall send him packing as soon as I am up, I assure you.

My dear said he, 'common charity won't suffer you to do that.'

Common charitty, a f—t!' says she,

common charity teaches us to provide for ourselves, and our families; and I and mine won't be ruined by your charity, I assure you.

'Well,' says he,

my dear, do as you will when you are up; you know I never contradict you.

'No,' says she,

if the devil was to contradict me, I would make the house too hot to hold him.

With such like discourses they consumed near half an hour, whilst Betty provided a shirt from the hostler, who was one of her sweethearts, and put it on poor Joseph. The surgeon had likewise at last visited him, and washed and drest his wounds, and was now come to acquaint Mr. Tow-wouse, that his guest was in such extreme danger of his life, that he scarce saw any hopes of his recovery.—'Here's a pretty kettle of fish,' cries Mrs. Tow|wouse,

you have brought upon us! We are like to have a funeral at our own expence.

Tow|wouse, (who notwithstanding his charity, would have given his vote as freely as ever he did at an election, that any other house in the kingdom should have quiet possession of his guest) answered,

My dear, I am not to blame: he was brought hi|ther by the stage-coach; and Betty had put him to bed before I was stirring.

'I'll Betty her,' says she—At which, with half her garments on, the other half under her arm, she sallied out in quest of the unfortunate Betty, whilst Tow-wouse and the surgeon went to pay a visit to poor Joseph, and enquire into the circumstances of this melancholy affair.

CHAP. XIII.

What happened to Joseph during his sickness at the inn, with the curious discourse between him and Mr. Barnabas the parson of the parish.

AS soon as Joseph had communicated a parti|cular history of the robbery, together with a short account of himself and his intended journey, he asked the surgeon, if he apprehended him to be in any danger: To which the surgeon very honest|ly answered,

He feared he was; for that his pulse was very exalted and feverish, and if his fever should prove more than symptomatic, it would be impossible to save him.

Joseph fetch|ing a deep sigh, cried,

Poor Fanny, I would I could have lived to see thee! but God's will be done.

The surgeon then advised him, if he had any worldly affairs to settle, that he would do it as soon as possible; for tho' he hoped he might recover, yet he thought himself obliged to acquaint him he was in great danger; and if the malign concoction of his humours should cause a suscitation of his fe|ver, he might soon grow delirious and incapable to make his will. Joseph answered,

That it was impossible for any creature in the universe to be in a poorer condition than himself: for since the robbery, he had not one thing of any kind whatever, which he could call his own. I had, said he, a poor little piece of gold, which they took away, that would have been a comfort to me in all my afflictions; but surely, Fanny, I want nothing to remind me of thee. I have

thy dear image in my heart, and no villain can ever tear it thence.

Joseph desired paper and pens to write a letter, but they were refused him; and he was advised to use all his endeavours to compose himself. They then left him; and Mr. Tow-wouse sent to a cler|gyman to come and administer his good offices to the soul of poor Joseph, since the surgeon despaired of making any successful applications to his body.

Mr. Barnabas (for that was the clergyman's name) came as soon as sent for; and having first drank a dish of tea with the landlady, and afterwards a bowl of punch with the landlord, he walked up to the room where Joseph lay; but finding him asleep, re|turned to take the other sna••er; which when he had finished, he again crept softly up to the cham|ber-door, and having opened it, heard the sick man talking to himself in the following manner:

O most adorable Pamela! most virtuous sister! whose example could alone enable me to withstand all the temptations of riches and beauty, and to preserve my virtue pure and chaste, for the arms of my dear Fanny, if it had pleased heaven that I should ever have come unto them. What riches, or honours, or pleasures can make us amends for the loss of innocence? Doth not that alone afford us more consolation, than all worldly acquisitions? What but innocence and virtue could give any comfort to such a miserable wretch as I am? Yet these can make me prefer this sick and painful bed to all the pleasures I should have found in my la|dy's. These can make me face death without fear; and though I love my Fanny more than ever man loved a woman, these can teach me to resign my|self to the divine will without repining. O thou delightful charming creature! if heaven had in|dulged

thee to my arms, the poorest, humblest state, would have been a paradise; I could have lived with thee in the lowest cottage, without en|vying the palaces, the dainties, or the riches of any man breathing. But I must leave thee, leave thee for ever, my dearest angel! I must think of another world; and I heartily pray thou may'st meet com|fort in this.

—Barnabas thought he had heard e|nough; so down stairs he went and told Tow-wouse he could do his guest no service; for that he was very light-headed, and had uttered nothing but a rhapsody of nonsense all the time he stayed in the room.

The surgeon returned in the afternoon, and found his patient in a higher fever, as he said, than when he left him, though not delirious; for not|withstanding Mr. Barnabas's opinion, he had not been once out of his senses since his arrival at the inn.

Mr. Barnabas was again sent for, and with much difficulty prevailed on to make another visit. As soon as he entered the room, he told Joseph,

He was come to pray by him, and to prepare him for another world: in the first place therefore, he hoped he had repented of all his sins.

Joseph an|swered,

He hoped he had; but there was one thing which he knew not whether he should call a sin; if it was, he feared he should die in the commission of it; and that was the regret of parting with a young woman, whom he loved as tenderly as he did his heart strings.

Barnabas bad him be as|sured,

that any repining at the divine will was one of the greatest sins he could commit; that he ought to forget all carnal affections, and think of better things.

Joseph said,

That neither in this world nor the next, he could forget his Fanny; and that

the thought, however grievous, of parting from her for ever, was not half so tormenting, as the fear of what she should suffer, when she knew his misfor|tune.

Barnabas said,

That such fears argued a diffidence and despondence very criminal; that he must divest himself of all human passions, and fix his heart above.

Joseph answered,

That was what he desired to do.

He then questioned him concerning his forgiveness of the thieves.—Joseph, with a very heavy sigh, replied, He feared

that was more than he could do: for nothing would give him more pleasure than to hear they were taken.

'That,' cries Barnabas,

is for the sake of Justice.

'Yes,' said Joseph,

but if I was to meet them again, I am afraid I should at|tack them, and kill them too, if I could.

'Doubt|less answered Barnabas,

it is lawful to kill a thief: but can you forgive them as a christian ought?

Joseph desired to know what that forgive|ness was. 'That is,' answered Barnabas,

to forgive them as—as—it is to forgive them as—in short it is to forgive them as a christian.

Joseph replied, 'He forgave them as much as he could.' Well, well, said Barnabas, 'that will do.' He then demanded of him,

if he remembered any more sins unrepented of; and if he did, he desired him to make haste and repent of them as fast as he could: that they might repeat over a few prayers together.

Joseph answered,

He could not recol|lect any great crimes he had been guilty of, and that those he had committed he was sincerely sorry for.

Barnabas said that was enough, and then proceeded to prayer with all the expedition he was master of, some company then waiting for him be|low i•• the parlour, where the ingredients for punch were all in readiness; but no one would squeeze the oranges till he came.

Joseph complained he was dry, and desired a lit|tle tea; which Barnabas reported to Mrs. Tow|wouse, who answered,

She had just done drinking it, and could not bear to be slopping all day;

but ordered Betty to carry him up some small beer.

Betty obeyed her mistress's commands; but Jo|seph, as soon as he tasted it, said, he feared it would increase his fever, and that he longed very much for tea: To which the good-natured Betty answered, he should have tea, if there was any in the land; she accordingly went and bought him some herself, and attended him with it: where we will leave her and Joseph together for some time, to entertain the reader with other matters.

CHAP. XIV.

Being very full of adventures, which succeeded each other at the inn.

IT was now the dusk of the evening, when a grave person rode into the inn, and committing his horse to the hostler, went directly into the kitchen, and having called for a pipe of tobacco, took his place by the fire-side; where several persons were likewise assembled.

The discourse ran altogether on the robbery which was committed the night before, and on the poor wretch, who lay above in the dreadful conditi|on in which we have already seen him. Mrs. Tow|wouse said,

She wondered what the devil Tom Whipwell meant by bringing such guests to her house, when there were so many ale houses on the road proper for their reception. But she assured him, if he died, the parish should be at the expence of the funeral.

She added,

Nothing would serve the fellow's turn but tea, she would assure him.

Betty, who was just returned from her charitable of|fice,

answered, she believed he was a gentleman, for she never saw a finer skin in her life.

Pox on his skin!

replied Mrs. Tow-wouse,

I suppose that is all we are like to have for the reckoning. I de|sire no such gentlemen should ever call at the Dra|gon,

(which it seems was the sign of the inn.)

The gentleman lately arrived discovered a great deal of emotion at the distress of this poor creature, whom he observed to be fallen not into the most com|passionate hands. And indeed, if Mrs. Tow-wouse had given no utterance to the sweetness of her tem|per, nature had taken such pains in her counte|nance, that Hogarth himself never gave more ex|pression to a picture.

Her person was short, thin, and crooked. Her forehead projected in the middle, and thence de|scended in a declivity to the top of her nose, which was sharp and red, and would have hung over her lips, had not nature turned up one end of it. Her lips were two bits of skin, which, whenever she spoke, she drew together in a purse. Her chin was peaked; and at the upper end of that skin, which composed her cheeks, stood two bones, that almost hid a pair of small red eyes. Add to this a voice most wonderfully adapted to the sentiments it was to convey, being both loud and hoarse.

It is not easy to say, whether the gentleman had conceived a greater dislike for his landlady, or compassion for her unhappy guest. He enquir|ed very earnestly of the surgeon, who was now come into the kitchen, whether he had any hopes of his recovery? he begged him to use all possible means towards it, telling him,

it was the duty of men of all professions, to apply their skill gratis for the relief of the poor and necessitous.

The surgeon answered,

he should take proper care;

but he defied all the surgeons in London to do him any good.

'Pray, Sir,' said the gentle|man, 'What are his wounds?—Why,

do you know any thing of wounds?

says the surgeon (winking upon Mrs. Tow-wouse)

Sir, I have a small smattering in surgery,

answered the gen|man. 'A smattering,—ho, ho, ho!' said the sur|geon, 'I believe it is a smattering indeed.

The company were all attentive, expecting to hear the doctor, who was what they call a dry fel|low, expose the gentleman.

He began therefore with an air of triumph:

I suppose, Sir, you have travelled.

No really Sir,

said the gentleman.

Ho! then you have practised in the hospitals perhaps.

—'No, Sir,'

Hum! not that neither? Whence, Sir, then, if I may be so bold to enquire, have you got your knowledge in surgery?

'Sir', answered the gen|man,

I do not pretend to much; but the little I know, I have from books.

'Book!' cries the doctor.—'What, I suppose you have read Galen and Hippocrates!' 'No, Sir, said the gentleman. 'How! you understand surgery,' answers the doc|tor, 'and not read Galen and Hippocrates' 'Sir,' cries the other,

I believe there are many surgeons who have never read these authors.

I believe so too,

says the doctor,

more shame for them: but thanks to my education I have them by heart, and very seldom go without them both in my pocket.

'They are pretty large books, 'said the gentleman. 'Aye,' said the doctor,

I believe I know how large they are better than you.

(At which he fell a winking, and the whole compa|ny burst into a laugh.)

The doctor pursuing his triumph, asked the gentleman,

if he did not understand physic as well

as surgery.

'Rather better,' answered the gen|tleman. 'Aye, like enough,' cries the doctor, with a wink. 'Why, I know a little of physic too.' I wish I knew half so much,' said Tow-wouse, I'd never wear an apron again.'

Why I be|lieve, landlord,

cries the doctor,

there are few men, though I say it, within twelve miles of the place, that handle a fever better.—Veniente ac|currite merbo: that is my method.—I suppose, brother, you understand Latin? A little,

says the gentleman.

Aye, and Greek now I'll warrant you: Ton dapomibo••inos polufloshoio Thalasses. But I have almost forgot these things, I could have repeated Homer by heart once.

—

Isags! the gentleman has caught a Traytor,

says Mrs. Tow-wouse; at which they all fell a laughing.

The gentleman, who had not the least affection for joking, very contentedly suffered the doctor to enjoy his victory; which he did with no small sa|tisfaction: and having sufficiently sounded his depth, told him,

he was thoroughly convinced of his great abilities; and that he would be obliged to him, if he would let him know his opinion of his patient's case above stairs.

'Sir,' says the doctor,

his case is that of a dead man—The contusion on his head has perforated the in|ternal membrane of the occiput, and divelicated that radical small minute invisible nerve, which coheres to the pericranium; and this was an|tended with a fever at first symptomatic, then pneumatic; and he is at length grown deliriuus, or delirious as the vulgar express it.

He was proceeding in this learned manner, when a mighty noise interrupted him. Some young fel|lows in the neighbourhood had taken one of the thieves, and were bringing him into the inn. Bet|ty

ran up stairs with this news to Joseph: who begged they might search for a little piece of bro|ken gold, which had a ribband tied to it, and which he could swear to amongst all the hoards of the richest men in the universe.

Notwithstanding the fellow's persisting in his innocence, the mob were very busy in searching him, and presently, among other things, pulled out the piece of gold just mentioned; which Betty no sooner saw, than she laid violent hands on it, and conveyed it up to Joseph, who received it with rap|tures of joy, and hugging it in his bosom, declared, he could now die contented.

Within a few minutes afterwards, came in some other fellows, with a bundle which they had found in a ditch, and which was indeed the cloaths which had been stripped off from Joseph, and the other things they had taken from him.

The gentleman no sooner saw the coat, than he declared he knew the livery; and, if it had been taken from the poor creature above stairs, desired he might see him: for that he was very well ac|quainted with the family to whom that livery be|longed.

He was accordingly conducted up by Betty: but what, reader, was the surprize on both sides, when he saw Joseph was the person in bed; and when Joseph discovered the face of his good friend Mr. Abraham Adams!

It would be impertinent to insert a discourse which chiefly turned on the relation of matters al|ready well known to the reader: for as soon as the curate had satisfied Joseph concerning the perfect health of his Fanny, he was on his side very inqui|sitive into all the particulars which had produced this unfortunate accident.

To return therefore to the kitchen, where a great variety of company were now assembled from all the rooms of the house, as well as the neighbourhood: so much delight do men take in contemplating the countenance of a thief.

Mr. Tow-wouse began to rub his hands with pleasure, at seeing so large an assembly; who would he hoped, shortly adjourn into several apartments, in order to discourse over the robbery, and drink a health to all honest men. But Mrs. Tow-wouse, whose misfortune it was commonly to see things a little perversely, began to rail at those who brought the fellow into her house; telling her husband,

they were very likely to thrive, who kept a house of entertainment for beggars and thieves.

The mob had now finished their search; and could find nothing about the captive likely to prove any evidence; for as to the cloaths, tho' the mob was very well satisfied with that proof; yet, as the surgeon observed, they could not convict him, be|cause they were not found in his custody; to which Barnabas agreed, and added, that these things were bona waviata, and belonged to the lord of the man|nor.

'How,' says the surgeon,

do you say these goods belong to the lord of the manor?

'I do,' cried Barnabas. 'Then I deny it,' says the surgeon.

What can the lord of the manor have to do in the case? Will any one attempt to persuade me that what a man finds is not his own?

I have heard (says an old fellow in the corner) justice Wiseone say, that if every man had his right, whatever is found belongs to the king of London.

That may be true,

says Barnabas,

in some sense: for the law makes a difference between things stolen and things found: for a thing may be stolen that

never is found; and a thing may be found that ne|ver was stolen. Now goods that are both stolen and found are waviata; and they belong to the lord of the manor.

So the lord of the manor is the re|ceiver of stolen goods,

(says the doctor;) at which there was a universal laugh, being first begun by himself.

While the prisoner, by persisting in his inno|cence, had almost (as there was no evidence against him) brought over Barnabas, the surgeon, Tow|wouse, and several others to his side; Betty inform|ed them, that they had over-looked a little piece of gold, which she had carried up to the man in bed; and which he offered to swear amongst a million, aye, amongst ten thousand. This immediately turned the scale against the prisoner; and every one now concluded him guilty. It was resolved there|fore, to keep him secure that night, and early in the morning to carry him before a justice.

CHAP. XV.

Shewing how Mrs. Tow-wouse was a little mollified; and how officious Mr. Barnabas and the surgeon were to prosecute the thief: with a dissertation accounting for their zeal, and that of many other persons not mentioned in this history.

BETTY told her mistress, she believed the man in bed was a greater man than they took him for: for besides the extreme whiteness of his skin, and the softness of his hands, she observed a very great familiarity between the gentleman and him; and added, she was certain they were intimate ac|quaintance, if not relations.

This somewhat abated the severity of Mrs. Tow|wouse's

countenance. She said,

God forbid she should not discharge the duty of a Christian, since the poor gentleman was brought to her house. She had a natural antipathy to vagabonds: but could pity the misfortunes of a Christian as soon as another.

Tow-wouse said,

If the traveller be a gentleman, tho' he had no money about him now, we shall most likely be paid hereafter; so 'you may begin to score whenever you will.

Mrs. Tow-wouse answered.

Hold your simple tongue, and don't instruct me in my business. I am sure I am sorry for the gentleman's misfortune with all my heart; and I hope the villain who hath used him so barbarously will be hanged. Betty, go, see what he wants. God forbid he should want any thing in my house.

Barnabas and the surgeon went up to Joseph, to satisfy themselves concerning the piece of gold. Joseph was with difficulty prevailed upon to shew it them; but would by no entreaties be brought to deliver it out of his own possession. He however attested this to be the same which had been taken from him; and Betty was ready to swear to the finding it on the thief.

The only difficulty that remained, was how to produce this gold before the justice: for as to car|rying Joseph himself, it seemed impossible; nor was there any great likelihood of obtaining it from him: for he had fastened it with a riband to his arm, and solemnly vowed, that nothing but irresistible force should ever separate them; in which resolution, Mr. Adams clenching a fist rather less than the knuckle of an ox, declared he would support him.

A dispute arose on this occasion concerning evi|dence, not very necessary to be related here; after which the surgeon drest Mr. Joseph's head; still

persisting in the imminent danger in which his pa|tient lay; but concluding with a very important look,

that he began to have hopes; that he should send him a sanative soporiferous draught, and would see him in the morning.

After which Bar|nabas and he departed, and left Mr. Joseph and Mr. Adams together.

Adams informed Joseph of the occasion of this journey which he was making to London, namely, to publish three volumes of sermons; being encou|raged, as he said by an advertisement lately set forth by a society of booksellers, who proposed to pur|chase, any copies offered to them, at a price to be settled by two persons: but tho' he imagined he should get a considerable sum of money on this oc|casion, which his family were in urgent need of, he protested he would not leave Joseph in his present condition: finally, he told him,

he had nine shil|lings and three pence half-penny in his pocket, which he was welcome to use as he pleased.

This goodness of parson Adams brought tears in|to Joseph's eyes; he declared he had now a

se|cond reason to desire life, that he might shew his gratitude to such a friend.

Adams bade him

be chearful; for that he plainly saw the surgeon be|sides his ignorance, desired to make a merit of cur|ing him, tho' the wounds in his head, he perceiv|ed, were by no means dangerous; that he was convinced he had no fever, and doubted not but he would be able to travel in a day or two.

These words infused a spirit into Joseph; he said,

he found himself very sore from the bruises, but had no reason to think any of his bones injured, or that he had received any harm in his inside; un|less that he felt something very odd in his stomach: but he knew not whether that might not arise from

not having eaten one morsel for above twenty-four hours.

Being then asked if he had any inclinati|on to eat, he answered in the affirmative. Then parson Adams desired him to name what he had the greatest fancy for; whether a poached egg, or chicken broth: he answered,

he could eat both ve|ry well; but that he seemed to have the greatest appetite for a piece of boiled beef and cabbage.

Adams was pleased with so perfect a confirma|tion that he had not the least fever; but advised him to a lighter diet, for that evening. He accord|ingly eat either a rabbit or a fowl, I never could with any tolerable certainty discover which; after this, he was, by Mrs. Tow-wouse's order, conveyed into a better bed, and equipped with one of her husband's shirts.

In the morning early, Barnabas and the surgeon came to the inn, in order to see the thief conveyed before the justice. They had consumed the whole night in debating what measures they should take to produce the piece of gold in evidence against him: for they were both extremely zealous in the busi|ness, tho' neither of them were in the least interest|ed in the prosecution; neither of them had ever re|ceived any private injury from the fellow, nor had either of them ever been suspected of loving the publick well enough to give them a sermon or a dose of physick for nothing.

To help our reader therefore as much as possible to account for this zeal, we must inform him, that, as this parish was so unfortunate as to have no law|yer in it; there had been a constant contention be|tween the two doctors, spiritual and physical, con|cerning their abilities in a science, in which, as neither of them professed it, they had equal preten|sions to dispute each other's opinions. These dis|putes

were carried on with great contempt on both sides, and had almost divided the parish; Mr. Tow|wouse and one half of the neighbours inclining to the surgeon, and Mrs. Tow-wouse with the other half to the parson. The surgeon drew his know|ledge from those inestimable fountains called the Attorney's Pocket-Companion, and Mr. Jacob's Law-tables; Barnabas trusted entirely to Wood's Institutes. It happened on this occasion, as was pretty frequently the case, that these two learned men differed about the sufficiency of evidence: the doctor being of opinion, that the maid's oath would convict the prisoner without producing the gold; the parson è contra, totis viribus. To display their parts therefore before the justice and the parish, was the sole motive, which we can discover, to this zeal which both of them pretended to have for public justice.

O Vanity! how little is thy force acknowledged, or thy operations discerned! How wantonly dost thou deceive mankind under different disguises! Sometimes thou dost wear the face of pity, some|times of generosity: nay, thou hast the assurance even to put on those glorious ornaments which be|long only to heroick virtue. Thou odious, deform|ed monster! whom priests have railed at, philoso|phers despised, and poets ridiculed: is there a wretch so abandoned as to own thee for an acquaint|ance in publick? yet how few will refuse to enjoy thee in private! nay, thou art the pursuit of most men through their lives. The greatest villainies are daily practised to please thee: nor is the meanest thief below, or the greatest hero above thy notice. Thy embraces are often the sole aim and sole re|ward of the private robbery, and the plundered pro|vince. It is to pamper up thee, thou harlot, that

we attempt to withdraw from others what we do not want, or to withhold from them what they do. All our passions are thy slaves. Avarice itself is of|ten no more than thy hand-maid, and even lust thy pimp. Thy bully fear, like a coward, flies before thee, and joy and grief hide their heads in thy pre|sence.

I know thou wilt think, that whilst I abuse thee, I court thee; and that thy love hath inspired me to write this sarcastical panegyric on thee: but thou art deceived, I value thee not a farthing; nor will it give me any pain, if thou shouldst pre|vail on the reader to censure this digression as ar|rant nonsense: for know, to thy confusion, that I have introduced thee for no other purpose than to lengthen out a short chapter; and so I return to my history.

CHAP. XVI.

The escape of the thief. Mr. Adams's disappointment. The arrival of two very extraordinary personages, and the introduction of parson Adams to parson Barnabas.

BARNABAS and the surgeon being returned, as we have said, to the inn, in order to con|vey the thief before the justice, were greatly con|cerned to find a small accident had happened, which somewhat disconcerted them; and this was no other than the thief's escape, who had modest|ly withdrawn himself by night, declining all osten|tation, and not chusing, in imitation of some great men, to distinguish himself at the expence of be|ing pointed at.

When the company had retired the evening be|fore,

the thief was detained in a room where the constable, and one of the young fellows who took him, were planted as his guard. About the second watch, a general complaint of drowth was made both by the prisoner and his keepers; among whom it was at last agreed, that the constable should remain on duty, and the young fellow call up the tapster; in which disposition the latter ap|prehended not the least danger, as the constable was well armed, and could besides easily summon him back to his assistance, if the prisoner made the least attempt to gain his liberty.

The young fellow had not long left the room, before it came into the constable's head, that the prisoner might leap on him by surprise, and there|by preventing him of the use of his weapons, espe|cially the long staff, in which he chiefly confided, might reduce the success of the struggle to an equal chance. He wisely, therefore, to prevent this in|convenience, slipt out of the room himself, and locked the door, waiting without with his staff in his hand, ready lifted to fell the unhappy prisoner, if by ill fortune he should attempt to break out.

But human life, as hath been discovered by some great man or other, (for I would by no means be understood to affect the honour of making any such discovery) very much resembles a game at Chess: for as in the latter, while a gamester is too atten|tive to secure himself very strongly on one side the board, he is apt to leave an unguarded opening on the other; so doth it often happen in life; and so did it happen on this occasion: for whilst the cau|tious constable with such wonderful sagacity had possessed himself of the door, he most unhappily forgot the window.

The thief, who played on the other side, no

sooner perceived this opening, than he began to move that way; and finding the passage easy he took with him the young fellow's hat; and with|out any ceremony, stepped into the street, and made the best of his way.

The young fellow returning with a double mug of strong beer, was a little surprized to find the constable at the door; but much more so, when, the door being opened, he perceived the prisoner had made his escape, and which way. He threw down the beer, and without uttering any thing to the constable, except a hearty curse or two, he nimbly leapt out at the window, and went again in pursuit of his prey; being very unwilling to lose the reward which he had assured himself of.

The constable hath not been discharged of sus|picion on this account: it hath been said, that not being concerned in the taking the thief, he could not have been entitled to any part of the reward, if he had been convicted; that the thief had several guineas in his pocket; that it was very unlikely he should have been guilty of such an oversight; that his pretence for leaving the room was absurd; that it was his constant maxim, that a wise man never refused money on any conditions; that at every election he always had sold his vote to both parties, &c.

But notwithstanding these and many other such allegations, I am sufficiently convinced of his in|nocence; having been positively assured of it, by those who received their informations from his own mouth; which, in the opinion of some mo|derns, is the best and indeed only evidence.

All the family were now up, and with many others assembled in the kitchen, where Mr. Tow|wouse was in some tribulation; the surgeon hav|ing

declared, that by law he was liable to be in|dicted for the thief's escape, as it was out of his house: he was a little comforted however by Mr. Barnabas's opinion, that as the escape was by night, the indictment would not lie.

Mrs. Tow-wouse delivered herself in the fol|lowing words:

Sure never was such a fool as my husband! would any other person living have left a man in the custody of such a drunken drowsy blockhead as Tom Suckbribe;

(which was the constable's name)

and if he could be indicted without any harm to his wife and children, I should be glad of it.

(Then the bell rung in Joseph's room.)

Why, Betty, John, Chamber|lain, where the devil are you all? Have you no ears, or no conscience, not to tend the sick bet|ter?—See what the gentleman wants; why don't you go yourself, Mr. Tow-wouse? but any one may die for you; you have no more feeling than a dead-board. If a man lived a fortnight in your house without spending a penny, you would ne|ver put him in mind of it. See whether he drinks tea or coffee for breakfast.

'Yes, my dear,' cried Tow-wouse. She then asked the doctor and Mr. Barnabas what morning's draught they chose, who answered they had a pot of cyder-and at the fire; which we will leave them merry over, and return to Joseph.

He had risen pretty early this morning: but tho' his wounds were far from threatening any dan|ger, he was so sore with the bruises, that it was impossible for him to think of undertaking a jour|ney yet; Mr. Adams therefore, whose stock was visibly decreased with the expences of supper and breakfast, and which could not survive that day's scoring, began to consider how it was possible to

recruit it. At last he cry'd,

He had luckily hit on a sure method; and though it would oblige him to return himself home together with Joseph, it mattered not much.

He then sent for Tow|wouse, and taking him into another room, told him,

He wanted to borrow three guineas, for which he would put ample security into his hand.

Tow-wouse, who expected a watch, or ring, or something of double the value, answered,

He be|lieved he could furnish him.

Upon which A|dams, pointing to his saddle-bag, told him with a voice and face full of solemnity,

That there were in that bag no less than nine volumes of manu|script sermons, as well worth a hundred pounds as a shilling was worth twelve pence, and that he would deposit one of the volumes in his hands by way of pledge; not doubting but that he would have the honesty to return it on his repayment of the money: for otherwise he must be a very great loser, seeing that every volume would at least bring him ten pounds, as he had been informed by a neighbouring clergyman in the country: for, said he, as to my own part, having never yet dealt in printing, I do not pretend to ascertain the ex|act value of such things.

Tow-wouse, who was a little surprized at the pawn, said (and not without some truth)

That he was no judge of the price of such kind of goods: and as for money, he really was very short.

Adams answered,

Certainly he would not scruple to lend him three guineas on what was undoubt|edly worth at least ten.

The landlord replied,

He did not believe he had so much money in the house, and besides he was to make up a sum. He was very confident the books were of much higher value, and heartily sorry it did not suit

him.

He then cryed out, coming Sir! though no body called; and ran down stairs without any fear of breaking his neck.

Poor Adams was extremely dejected at this dis|appointment, nor knew he what farther stratagem to try. He immediately applied to his pipe, his constant friend and comfort in his afflictions; and leaning over the rails he devoted himself to medi|tation, assisted by the inspiring fumes of tobacco.

He had on a night-cap drawn over his wig, and a short great coat, which half-covered his cassock; a dress which, added to something comical enough in his countenance, composed a figure likely to attract the eyes of those who were not ever-given to observation.

Whilst he was smoaking his pipe in this pos|ture, a coach and fix, with a numerous attendance, drove into the inn. There alighted from the coach a young fellow and a brace of pointers, after which another young fellow leapt from the box, and shook the former by the hand; and both, together with the dogs, were instantly conducted by Mr. Tow-wouse into an apartment; whither as they passed, they entertained themselves with the fol|lowing short facetious dialogue.

'You are a pretty fellow for a coachman, Jack!' says he from the coach,

you had almost overturn|ed us just now.

'Pox take you,' says the coach|man,

if I had only broke your neck, it would have been saving somebody else the trouble: but I should have been sorry for the pointers.

'Why you son of a b—,' answered the other,

if no body could shoot better than you, the pointers would be of no use.

D—n me, says the coachman, I will shoot with you, five guineas a shot.

'You be hanged,' says the other,

for

five guineas you shall shoot at my a—.

'Done,' says the coachman,

I'll pepper you better than ever you was pepper'd by Jenny Bouncer.

'Pepper your grandmother,' says the other,

here's Tow-wouse will let you shoot at him for a shil|ling a time.

'I know his honour better,' cries Tow-wouse,

I never saw a surer shoot at a par|tridge. Every man misses now and then; but if I could shoot half as well as his honour, I would desire no better livelihood than I could get by my gun.

'Pox on you,' said the coachman,

you demolish more game now than your head's worth. There's a bitch, Tow-wouse, by G—she never blink'd a bird in her life.

I have a puppy not a year old shall hunt with her for a hundred,

cries the other gentleman, 'Done,' says the coach|man,

but you will be pox'd before you make the bett. If you have a mind for a bett,

cries the coachman,

I will match my spotted dog with your white bitch for a hundred, play or pay.

'Done,' says the other,

and I'll run Baldface against Slouch with you for another.

'No,' cries he from the box,

but I'll venture Miss Jenny against Baldface or Hannibal either.

'Go to the devil,' cries he from the coach,

I will make every bett your own way, to be sure! I will match Hannibal with Slouch for a thousand, if you dare, and I say done first.

They were now arrived, and the reader will be very contented to leave them, and repair to the kit|chen, where Barnabas, the surgeon, and an excise|man were smoaking their pipes over some Cyder|and, and where the servants, who attended the two noble gentlemen we have just seen alight, were now arrived.

'Tom,' cries one of the footmen,

there's parson

Adams smoaking his pipe in the gallery.

'Yes says Tom,

I pulled off my hat to him, and the parson spoke to me.

'Is the gentleman a clergyman then?' says Bar|nabas, (for his cassock had been tied up when he first arrived.) 'Yes, Sir,' answered the footman,

and one there is but few like.

'Aye,' said Barnabas,

If I had known it sooner, I should have desired his company; I would always pay a proper respect for the cloth; but what say you, Doctor, shall we adjourn into a room, and invite him to take part of a bowl of punch?

This proposal was immediately agreed to, and executed; and parson Adams accepting the invita|tion, much civility passed between the two clergy|men, who both declared the great honour they had for the cloth. They had not been long together, before they entered into a discourse on small tithes, which continued a full hour, without the doctor o•• exciseman's having one opportunity to offer a word.

It was then proposed to begin a general conver|sation, and the exciseman opened on foreign affairs: but a word unluckily dropping from one of them in|troduced a dissertation on the hardships suffered by the inferior clergy; which after a long duration, concluded with bringing the nine volumes of ser|mons on the carpet.

Barnabas greatly discouraged poor Adams; he said,

The age was so wicked, that nobody read sermons:

Would you think it, Mr. Adams, (said he)

I once intended to print a volume of sermons myself, and they had the approbation of two or three bishops: but what do you think a booksel|ler offered me?

'Twelve guineas perhaps (cried Adams.') 'Not twelve pence, I assure you,' an|swered Barnabas;

nay, the dog refused me a Con|cordance

in exchange.—At last I offered to give him the printing them for the sake of dedicating them to that very gentleman who just now drove his own coach into the inn; and I assure you he had the impudence to refuse my offer: by which means I lost a good living, that was afterwards given away in exchange for a pointer, to one who—but I will not say any thing against the cloth. So you may guess, Mr. Adams, what you are to expect; for if sermons would have gone down, I believe—I will not be vain: but to be concise with you, three bishops said, they were the best that ever were writ: but indeed there are a pretty moderate number printed already, and not all sold yet.

—'Pray, Sir,' said Adams,

to what do you think the numbers may amount?

'Sir,' answer|ed Barnabas,

a bookseller told me, he believed five thousand volumes at least.

'Five thousand!' ••uoth the surgeon,

what can they be writ upon? I remember when I was a boy, I used to read one Tillotson's sermons; and I am sure, if a man practised half so much as is in one of those ser|mons, he will go to heaven.

'Doctor,' cried Barnabas,

you have a prophane way of talking, for which I must reprove you. A man can never have his duty too frequently inculcated into him. And as for Tillotson, to be sure he was a good writer, and said things very well: but comparisons are odious; another man may write as well as he—I believe there are some of my sermons,

—and then he applied the candle to his pipe—

And I believe there are some of my discourses,

cries Adams,

which the bishops would not think totally unwor|thy of being printed; and I have been informed, I might procure a very large sum (indeed an im|mense one) on them.

'I doubt that,' answered

Barnabas,

however, if you desire to make some money of them, perhaps you may sell them by ad|vertising the manuscript sermons, of a clergyman lately deceased, all warranted originals, and never printed. And now I think of it, I should be obli|ged to you, if there be ever a funeral one among them, to lend it me: for I am this very day to preach a funeral sermon; for which I have not penned a line, though I am to have a double price.

Adams answered,

He had but one, which he feared would not serve his purpose, being sacred to the memory of a magistrate, who had exerted himself very singularly in the preservation of the morality of his neighbours, insomuch that he had neither ale-house, nor lewd woman in the parish where he lived.

—'No,' replyed Barnabas,

that will not do quite so well; for the deceased upon whose vir|tues I am to harangue, was a little too much ad|dicted to liquor, and publickly kept a mistress I believe I must take a common sermon, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to my memory to introduce something handsome on him.

—'To your invention rather,' (said the doctor)

your memory will be apter to put you out: for no man living remembers any thing good of him.

With such kind of spiritual discourse, they emp|tied the bowl of punch, paid their reckoning, and separated: Adams and the doctor went up to Jo|seph, parson Barnabas departed to celebrate the a|foresaid deceased, and the exciseman descended into the cellar to gauge the vessels.

Joseph was now ready to sit down to a loin of mutton, and waited for Mr. Adams, when he and the doctor came in. The doctor having felt his pulse, and examined his wounds, declared him much better, which he imputed to that sanative

soporiferous draught, a medicine, 'whose virtues,' he said, 'were never to be sufficiently extolled.' And great indeed they must be, if Joseph was so much indebted to them as the doctor imagined; since nothing more than those effluvia, which escaped the cork, could have contributed to his recovery: for the medicine had stood untouched in the window ever since his arrival.

Joseph passed that day and the three following with his friend Adams, in which nothing so re|markable happened as the swift progress of his recovery. As he had an excellent habit of body, his wounds were now almost healed; and his bruises gave him so little uneasiness, that he pres|sed Mr. Adams to let him depart, told him he should never be able to return sufficient thanks for all his favours; but begged that he might no lon|ger delay his journey to London.

Adams, notwithstanding the ignorance, as he 〈◊〉〈◊〉 it, of Mr. Tow-wouse, and the envy (for such he thought it) of Mr. Barnabas, had great expectations from his sermons: seeing there|fore Joseph in so good a way, he told him he would agree to his setting out the next morning in the stage-coach, that he believed he should have suf|ficient, after the reckoning paid, to procure him one day's conveyance in it, and afterwards he would be able to get on, on foot, or might be fa|voured with a lift in some neighbour's waggon, especially as there was then to be a fair in the town whither the coach would carry him, to which num|bers from his parish resorted—And as to himself, he agreed to proceed to the great city.

They were now walking in the inn-yard, when a fat, fair, short person rode in, and alighting from his horse, went directly up to Barnabas, who was

smoaking his pipe on a bench. The parson and the stranger shook one another very lovingly by the hand, and went into a room together.

The evening now coming on, Joseph retired to his chamber, whither the good Adams accompa|nied him; and took this opportunity to expatiate on the great mercies God had lately shewn him, of which he ought not only to have the deepest in|ward sense; but likewise to express outward thankfulness for them. They therefore fell both on their knees, and spent a considerable time in prayer and thanksgiving.

They had just finished, when Betty came in and told Mr. Adams, Mr. Barnabas desired to speak to him on some business of consequence below stairs. Joseph desired, if it was likely to detain him long, he would let him know it, that he might go to bed, which Adams promised, and in that case they wished one another good night.

CHAP. XVII.

A pleasant discourse between the two parsons and the bookseller, which was broke off by an unlucky acci|dent happening in the inn, which produced a dialogue between Mrs. Tow-wouse and her maid, of no gentle kind.

AS soon as Adams came into the room, Mr. Barnabas introduced him 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the stranger, who was, he told him, a bookseller, and would be as likely to deal with him for his sermons as any man whatever. Adams saluted the stranger, answered Barnabas, that he was very much obliged to him; that nothing could be more convenient; for he had no other business to the great city, and was

heartily desirous of returning with the young man who was just recovered of his misfortune. He then snapt his fingers (as was usual with him) and took two or three turns about the room in an ex|tasy.—And to induce the bookseller to be as ex|peditious as possible, as likewise to offer him a better price for his commodity, he assured him their meeting was extremely lucky to himself: for that he had the most pressing occasion for mo|ney at that time, his own being almost spent, and having a friend then in the same inn who was just recovered from some wounds he had received from robbers, and was in a most indigent condition; 'So that nothing,' says he,

could be so opportune, for the supplying both our necessities, as my mak|ing an immediate bargain with you.

As soon as he had seated himself, the stranger be|gan in these words;

Sir, I do not care absolutely to deny engaging in what my friend Mr. Barna|bas recommends: but sermons are mere drugs. The trade is so vastly stocked with them, that real|ly unless they come out with the name of Whit|field or Westley, or some other such great man, as a bishop, or those sort of people, I don't care to touch, unless now i•• was a sermon preached on the 30th of January, or we could say in the title page, published at the earnest request of the congregati|on, or the inhabitants: but truly for a dry piece of sermons, I had rather be excused; especially, as my hands are so full at present. However, Sir, as Mr. Barnabas mentioned them to me, I will, if you please take the manuscript with me to town, and send you my opinion of it in a very short time.

'O,' said Adams,

if you desire it, I will read two or three discourses as a specimen.

This Bar|nabas,

who loved sermons no better than a grocer doth figs, immediately objected to, and advised A|dams to let the bookseller have his sermons; tel|ling him, if he gave him a direction, he might be certain of a speedy answer: adding, he need not scruple trusting them in his possession. 'No,' said the bookseller,

if it was a play that had been act|ed twenty nights together, I believe it would be safe.

Adams did not at all relish the last expression; he said, he was sorry to hear sermons compared to plays. 'Not by me, I assure you, cried the book|seller,

tho' I don't know whether the licensing act may not shortly bring them on the same footing: but I have formerly known a hundred guineas giv|en for a play.

—

More shame for those who gave it,

cry'd Barnabas. 'Why so?' said the bookseller, 'for they got hundreds by it.'

But is there no difference between conveying good or ill instructions to mankind?

said Adams;

would not an honest mind rather lose money by the one, than gain it by the other?

If you can find any such, I will not be their hindrance,

answered the bookseller;

but I think those persons who get by preaching sermons, are the properest to lose by printing them: for my part, the copy that sells best, will be always the best copy in my opinion; I am no enemy to sermons but because they don't sell: for I would as soon print one of Whitfield's, as any farce whatever.

Whoever prints such heterodox stuff ought to be hanged,

says Barnabas. 'Sir,' said he, turning to Adams,

this fellow's writings (I know not whe|ther you have seen them) are leveled at the clergy. He would reduce us to the example of the primi|tive ages, forsooth! and would insinuate to the

people that a clergyman ought to be always preach|ing and praying. He pretends to understand the scripture literally, and would make mankind be|lieve, that the poverty and low estate which was recommended to the church in it's infancy, and was only temporary doctrine adapted to her under persecution, was to be preserved in her flourish|ing and established state. Sir, the principles of Toland, Woolston, and all the free-thinkers, are not calculated to do half the mischief, as those pro|fessed by this fellow and his followers.

Sir, answered Adams,

if Mr. Whitefield had carried his doctrine no farther than you mention, I should have remained, as I once was, his well|wisher. I am myself as great an enemy to the lux|ury and splendor of the clergy as he can be. I do not, more than he, by the flourishing estate of the church, understand the palaces, equipages, furni|ture, rich dainties, and vast fortunes of her mini|sters. Surely those things, which favour so strong|ly of this world, become not the servants of one who professes his kingdom was not of it: but when he began to call nonsense and enthusiasm to his aid, and set up the detestable doctrine of faith against good works, I was his friend no longer; for surely, that doctrine was coined in hell, and one would think none but the devil himself could have the impudence to preach it. For can any thing be more derogatory to the honour of God, than for men to imagine that the all-wise Being will hereafter say to the good and virtuous, "notwith|standing the purity of thy life, notwithstanding that constant rule of virtue and goodness in which you walked upon earth, still as thou didst not be|lieve every thing in the true orthodox manner, thy want of faith shall condemn thee?" Or on

the other side, can any doctrine have a more per|nicious influence on society, than a persuasion, that it will be a good plea for the villain at the last day; "Lord, it is true, I never obeyed one of thy commands, yet punish me not, for I believe them all?"

'I suppose, Sir,' said the bookseller,

your sermons are of a different kind.

'Ay, Sir,' said Adams,

the contrary, I thank heaven, is incul|cated in almost every page, or I should bely my own opinion, which hath always been, that a vir|tuous and good Turk, or heathen, are more ac|ceptable in the sight of their Creator, than a vici|ous and wicked Christian, tho' his faith was as perfectly orthodox as St. Paul's himself.

—

I wish you success,

says the bookseller,

but must beg to be excused, as my hands are so very full at present; and indeed I am afraid, you will find a backwardness in the trade, to engage in a book which the clergy would be certain to cry down.

'God forbid,' says Adams,

any books should he propagated which the clergy would cry down: but if you mean by the clergy, some few designing fac|tious men, who have it at heart to establish some favourite schemes at the price of the liberty of mankind, and the very essence of religion, it is not in their power to decry any book they please; witness that excellent book called, "A plain ac|count of the nature and end of the Sacrament;" a book written (if I may venture on the expressi|on) with the pen of an angel, and calculated to re|store the true use of Christianity, and of that sa|cred institution; for what could tend more to the noble purposes of religion, than frequent chearful meetings among the members of a society, in which they should, in the presence of one another, and in the service of the Supreme Being, make promises

of being good, friendly, and benevolent to each o|ther? Now this excellent book was attacked by a party, but unsuccessfully.

At these words Barnabas fell a ringing with all the violence imaginable; upon which a servant attending, he bid him,

bring a bill immediately: for that he was in company, for aught he knew, with the devil himself; and he expected to hear the Alcoran, the Leviathan, or Woolston com|mended, if he staid a few minutes longer.

A|dams desired,

as he was so much moved at his mentioning a book, which he did without ap|prehending any possibility of offence, that he would be so kind to propose any objections he had to it, which he would endeavour to answer.

'I propose objections!' said Barnabas,

I never read a syllable in any such wicked book; I ne|ver saw it in my life, I assure you.

—Adams was go|ing to answer, when a most hideous uproar began in the inn. Mrs. Tow-wouse, Mr. Tow-wouse, and Betty, all lifting up their voices together: but Mrs. Tow-wouse's voice, like a bass viol in a con|cert, was clearly and distinctly distinguished among the rest, and was heard to articulate the follow|ing sounds,—

O you damn'd villain, is this the return to all the care I have taken of your fami|ly? This the reward of my virtue? Is this the manner in which you behave to one who brought you a fortune, and preferred you to so many matches, all your betters? To abuse my bed, my own bed, with my own servant: but I'll maul the slut, I'll tear her nasty eyes out: was ever such a pitiful dog, to take up with such a mean trollop? If she had been a gentlewoman like myself, it had been some excuse; but a beg|garly saucy dirty servant-maid.—Get you out of

my house, you whore.

To which she added another name, which we do not care to stain our paper with. It was a monosyllable beginning with a b—, and indeed was the same, as if she had pronounced the words, She-Dog. Which term we shall, to avoid offence, use on this occa|sion, though, indeed, both the mistress and maid uttered the abovementioned b—, a word ex|tremely disgustful to females of the lower sort. Betty had borne all hitherto with patience, and had uttered only lamentations: but the last ap|pellation stung her to the quick.

I am a woman as well as yourself,

she roared out,

and no she-dog, and if I have been a little naughty, I am not the first; if I have been no better than I should be,

cries she sobbing,

that's no reason you should call me out of my name; my be-betters are wo-rse than me.

'Huzzy, huzzy,' says Mrs. Tow-wouse,

have you the impudence to answer me? Did I not catch you, you fancy—

and then again repeated the terrible word so odious to female ears. 'I can't bear that name,' answer|ed Betty,

if I have been wicked, I am to an|swer for it myself in the other world; but I have done nothing that's unnatural; and I will go out of your house this moment: for I will never be called She-Dog by any mistress in England.

Mrs. Tow-wouse then armed herself with the spit, but was prevented from executing any dreadful purpose by Mr. Adams, who confined her arms with the strength of a wrist which Hercules would not have been ashamed of. Mr. Tow|wouse being caught, as our lawyers express it, with the manner, and having no defence to make, very prudently withdrew himself, and Betty com|mitted herself to the protection of the hostler, who,

tho' she could not conceive him pleased with what had happened, was, in her opinion, rather a gent|ler beast than her mistress.

Mrs. Tow-wouse, at the intercession of Mr. Adams, and finding the enemy vanished, began to compose herself, and at length recovered the usual serenity of her temper, in which we will leave her, ••o open to the reader the steps which led to a ca|tastrophe common enough and comical enough too, perhaps in modern history, yet often fatal to the repose and well-being of families, and the sub|ject of many tragedies, both in life and on the stage.

CHAP. XVIII.

The history of Betty the chambermaid, and an account of what occasioned the violent scene in the preceding chapter.

BETTY, who was the occasion of all this hur|ry, had some good qualities. She had good|nature, generosity, and compassion, but unfortu|nately her constitution was composed of those warm ingredients, which, though the purity of courts or nunneries might have happily controuled them, were by no means able to endure the ticklish situ|ation of a chambermaid at an inn, who is daily li|able to the solicitations of lovers of all complex|ions, to the dangerous addresses of fine gentlemen of the army, who sometimes are obliged to reside with them a whole year together; and above all are exposed to the caresses of footmen, stage-coach|men, and drawers; all of whom employ the whole artillery of kissing, flattering, bribing, and every o|ther

weapon which is to be found in the whole armoury of love, against them.

Betty, who was but one and twenty, had now lived three years in this dangerous situation, during which she had escaped pretty well. An ensign of foot was the first person who made an impression on her heart; he did indeed raise a flame in her, which required the care of a surgeon to cool.

While she burnt for him, several others burnt for her. Officers of the army, young gentlemen travelling the western circuit, inoffensive squires, and some of graver character were set afire by her charms!

At length, having perfectly recovered the effects of her first unhappy passion, she seemed to have vowed a state of perpetual ch••••••ity. She was long deaf to all the sufferings of her lovers, till one day, at a neighbouring fair, the rhetoric of John the hostler, with a new straw hat, and a pint of wine, made a second conquest over her.

She did not, however, feel any of those flames on this occasion, which had been the consequence of her former amour; nor indeed those other ill ef|fects, which prudent young women very justly apprehend from too absolute an indulgence to the pressing endearments of their lovers. This latter, perhaps, was a little owing to her not being en|tirely constant to John, with whom she permitted Tom Whipwell the stage-coachman, and now and then a handsome young traveller, to share her fa|vours.

Mr. Tow-wouse had for some time cast the lan|guishing eyes of affection on this young maiden. He had laid hold on every opportunity of saying tender things, to her, squeezing her by the hand, and sometimes kissing her lips: for as the violence of

his passion had considerably abated to Mrs. Tow|wouse; so like water, which is stopt from its usual current in one place, it naturally sought a vent in another. Mrs. Tow-wouse is thought to have per|ceived this abatement, and probably it added very little to the natural sweetness of her temper; for though she was as true to her husband as the dial to the sun, she was rather more desirous of being shone on, as being more capable of feeling his warmth.

Ever since Joseph's arrival, Betty had conceived an extraordinary liking to him, which discovered it|self more and more, as he grew better and better; till that fatal evening when, as she was warming his bed, her passion grew to such a height, and so per|fectly mastered both her modesty and her reason, that after many fruitless hints and fly insinuations, she at last threw down the warming-pan, and em|bracing him with great eagerness, swore he was the handsomest creature she had ever seen.

Joseph in great confusion leapt from her, and told her, he was sorry to see a young woman cast off all regard to modesty: but she had gone too far to re|cede, and grew so very indecent, that Joseph was ob|liged, contrary to his inclinations, to use some vio|lence to her, and taking her in his arms, he shut her out of the room, and locked the door.

How ought man to rejoice, that his chastity is always in his own power, that if he hath sufficient strength of mind, he hath always a competent strength of body to defend himself, and cannot like a poor weak woman, be ravished against his will.

Betty was in the most violent agitation at this disappointment. Rage and lust pulled her heart, as with two strings, two different ways; one moment she thought of stabbing Joseph, the next, of taking

him in her arms, and devouring him with kisses; but the latter passion was far more prevalent. Then she thought of revenging his refusal on herself: but whilst she was engaged in this meditation, happily death presented himself to her in so many shapes of drowning, hanging, poisoning, &c. that her dis|tracted mind could resolve on none. In this per|turbation of spirit, it accidentally occurred to her memory, that her master's bed was not made; she therefore went directly to his room; where he hap|pened at that time to be engaged at his bureau. As soon as she saw him, she attempted to retire, but he called her back, and taking her by the hand, squeezed her so tenderly, at the same time whisper|ed so many soft things into her ears, and then pres|sed her so closely with his kisses, that the vanquish|ed fair one, whose passions were already raised, and which were not so whimsically capricious that one man only could lay them, though, perhaps, she would have rather preferred that one: the van|quished fair-one quietly submitted, I say, to her master's will, who had just attained the accomplish|ment of his bliss, when Mrs. Tow-wouse unex|pectedly entered the room, and caused all that con|fusion which we have before seen, and which it is not necessary at present to take any farther notice of: since without the assistance of a single hint from us, every reader of any speculation, or experience, tho' not married himself, may easily conjecture, that it concluded with the discharge of Betty, the submis|sion of Mr. Tow-wouse, with some things to be performed on his side by way of gratitude for his wife's goodness of being reconciled to him, with many hearty promises never to offend any more in the like manner: and lastly, his quietly and con|tentedly bearing to be reminded of his transgressi|ons,

as a kind of penance, once or twice a day, during the residue of his life.

BOOK. II.

CHAP. I.

Of divisions in authors.

THERE are certain mysteries or secrets in all trades from the highest to the lowest, from that of prime mini••••ring to this of authoring, which are seldom discovered, unless to members of the same calling. Among those used by us gen|tlemen of the latter occupation, I take this of dividing our works into books and chapters to be none of the least considerable. Now, for want of being truly acquainted with this secret, common readers imagine, that by this art of dividing, we mean only to swell our works to a much larger bulk than they would otherwise be extended to. These several places therefore in our paper, which are filled with our books and chapters, are under|stood as so much buckram, stays, and stay tape in a taylor's bill, serving only to make up the sum total, commonly found at the bottom of our first page, and of his last.

But in reality the case is otherwise, and in this, as well as in all other instances, we consult the ad|vantage of our reader, not our own; and indeed many notable uses arise to him from this method: for first, those little spaces between our chapters may be looked upon as an inn or resting place, where he may stop and take a glass, or any other refreshment, as it pleases him. Nay, our fine rea|ders will, perhaps, be scarce able to travel farther

than through one of them in a day. As to those vacant pages which are placed between our books, they are to be regarded as those stages, where in long journies the traveller stays some time to re|pose himself, and consider of what he hath seen in the parts he hath already past through; a consi|deration which I take the liberty to recommend a little to the reader; for, however swift his ca|pacity may be, I would not advise him to travel thro' these pages too fast: for if he doth, he may probably miss the seeing some curious producti|ons of nature, which will be observed by the slow|er and more accurate reader. A volume without any such places of rest resembles the opening of wilds or seas, which tires the eye and fatigues the spirit when entered upon.

Secondly, what are the contents prefixed to eve|ry chapter, but so many inscriptions over the gates of inns (to continue the same metaphor) informing the reader what entertainment he is to expect, which, if he likes not, he may travel on to the next: for, in biography, as we are not tied down to an exact concatenation equally with other histo|rians; so a chapter or two (for instance this I am now writing) may be often passed over without any injury to the whole. And in these inscrip|tions I have been as faithful as possible, not imi|tating the celebrated Montaigne, who sometimes promises a great deal and produces nothing at all.

There are, besides these more obvious benefits, several others which our readers enjoy from this art of dividing; though perhaps most of them too mysterious to be presently understood by any who are not initiated into the science of authoring. To mention therefore but one which is most obvious, it prevents spelling the beauty of a book by turning

down its leaves, a method otherwise necessary to those readers, who, (tho' they read with great im|provement and advantage) are apt, when they re|turn to their study, after half an hour's absence, to forget where they left off.

These divisions have the sanction of great anti|quity. Homer not only divided his great work into twenty-four books, (in compliment perhaps to the twenty-four letters, to which he had very particular obligations) but, according to the opini|on of some very sagacious criticks, hawked them all separately, delivering only one book at a time, (probably by subscription.) He was the first in|ventor of the art which hath so long lain dormant, of publishing by numbers, an art now brought to such perfection, that even dictionaries are divided and exhibited piece-meal to the public; nay, one bookseller hath (to encourage learning and ease the public) contrived to give them a dictionary in this divided manner, for only fifteen shillings more than it would have cost entire.

Virgil hath given us his poem in twelve books, an argument of his modesty; for by that doubtless he would insinuate that he pretends to no more than half the merit of the Greek: for the same reason, our Milton went originally no farther than ten; 'till being puffed up by the praise of his friends, he put himself on the same footing with the Roman poet.

I shall not however enter so deep into this matter as some very learned critics have done, who have with infinite labour and acute discernment discover|ed what books are proper for embellishment, and what require simplicity only, particularly with re|gard to similies, which I think are now generally a|greed to become any book but the first.

I will dismiss this chapter with the following ob|servation: that it becomes an author generally to di|vide a book, as it does a butcher to joint his meat, for such assistance is of great help to both the reader and the carver. And now having indulged my self a little, I will endeavour to indulge the curiosity of my reader, who is no doubt impatient to know what he will find in the subsequent chapters of this book.

CHAP. II.

A surprising instance of Mr. Adams's short memory, with the unfortunate consequences which it brought on Joseph.

MR. Adams and Joseph were now ready to de|part different ways, when an accident deter|mined the former to return with his friend, which Tow-wouse, Barnabas, and the bookseller, had not been able to do. This accident was, that those ser|mons, which the parson was travelling to London to publish, were, O my good reader! left behind; what he had mistaken for them in the saddle-bags being no other than three shirts, a pair of shoes, and some other necessaries, which Mrs. Adams, who thought her husband would want shirts more than sermons on his journey, had carefully provided him.

This discovery was now luckily owing to the presence of Joseph at the opening the saddle-bags; who having hea••d his friend say, he carried with him nine volumes of sermons, and not being of that sect of philosophers, who can reduce all the matter of the world into a nut-shell, seeing there was no room for them in the bags, where the parson had said they were deposited, had the curiosity to cry out,

Bless me, Sir, where are your sermons?

The parson an|swer'd.

There, there, child, there they are, under my shirts.

Now it happened that he had taken forth his last shirt, and the vehicle remained visibly empty. 'Sure, Sir,' says Joseph,

there is nothing in the bags.

Upon which Adams starting, and te••••ifying some surprize, cried,

Hey! fie, fie upon it; they are not here sure enough. Ay, they are certainly left behind.

Joseph was greatly concerned at the uneasiness which he apprehended his friend must feel from this disappointment: he begged him to pursue his journey, and promised he would himself return with the books to him, with the utmost expedition. 'No, thank you, child,' answered Adams,

it shall not be so. What would it avail me, to tarry in the great city, unless I had my discourses with me, which are, ut ita dicum, the sole cause, the aitia 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of my peregrination. No, child, as this ac|cident hath happened, I am resolved to return back to my cure, together with you; which indeed my inclination sufficiently leads me to. This disap|pointment may perhaps be intended for my good. He concluded with a verse out of Theocritus, which signifies no more than, that sometimes it rains, and sometimes the sun shines.

Joseph bowed with obedience and thankfulness for the inclination which the parson expressed of returning with him; and now the bill was called for, which, on examination, amounted within a shilling to the sum Mr. Adams had in his pocket. Perhaps the reader may wonder how he was able to produce a sufficient sum for so many days: that he may not be surprized therefore, it cannot be unnecessary to acquaint him, that he had borrow|ed a guinea of a servant belonging to the coach and six, who had been formerly one of his parishion|ers,

and whose master, the owner of the coach, then lived within three miles of him: for so good was the credit of Mr. Adams, that even Mr. Pe|ter the lady Booby's steward would have lent him a guinea with very little security.

Mr. Adams discharged the bill, and they were both setting out, having agreed to ride and tie; a method of travelling much used by persons who have but one horse between them▪ and is thus per|formed. The two travellers set out together, one on horseback, and the other 〈◊〉〈◊〉: Now, as it ge|nerally happens that he on horseback outgoes him on foot, the custom is, that when he arrives at the distance agreed on, he is to dismount, tie the horse to some gate, tree, 〈◊〉〈◊〉, or other thing, and then proceed on foot; when the other comes up to the horse, he unties him, mounts and gallops on, 'till having passed by his fellow-traveller, he li••ewise arrives at the place of tying. And this is that me|thod of travelling so much in use among our pru|dent ancestors, who knew that horses had mouths as well as legs, and that they could not use the lat|ter, without being at the expence of suffering the beasts themselves to use the former. This was the method in use in those days, when, instead of a coach and six, a member of parliament's lady used to mount a pillion behind her husband; and a grave serjeant at law condescended to amble to Westminster on an easy pad, with his clerk kick|ing his heels behind him.

Adams was now gone some minutes, having in|sisted on Joseph's beginning the journey on horse|back, and Joseph had his foot in the stirrup, when the hostler presented him a bill for the horse's board during his residence at the inn. Joseph said Mr. Adams had paid all; but this matter be|ing

referred to Mr. Tow-wouse, was by him de|cided in favour of the hostler, and indeed with truth and justice: for this was a fresh instance of that shortness of memory which did not arise from want of parts, but that continual hurry in which parson Adams was always involved.

Joseph was now reduced to a dilemma which extremely puzzled him. The sum due for horse|meat was twelve shillings, (for Adams, who had borrowed the beast of his clerk, had ordered him to be fed as well as they could feed him) and the cash in his pocket amounted to sixpence, (for A|dams had divided the last shilling with him.) Now tho' there have been some ingenious persons who have contrived to pay twelve shillings with sixpence, Joseph was not one of them. He had never contracted a debt in his life, and was con|sequently the less ready at an expedient to extri|cate himself. Tow-wouse was willing to give him credit 'till next time, to which Mrs. Tow-wouse would probably have consented (for such was Joseph's beauty, that it had made some im|pression even on that piece of flint which that good woman wore in her bosom by way of heart.) Joseph would have found therefore, very likely, the passage free, had he not, when he honestly dis|covered the nakedness of his pockets, pull'd out that little piece of gold which we have mentioned before. This caused Mrs. Tow-wouse's eyes to water; she told Joseph, she did not conceive a man could want money whilst he had gold in his pocket. Joseph answered, he had such a value for that little piece of gold, that he would not part with it for a hundred times the riches which the greatest esquire in the country was worth.

A pretty way indeed,

said Mrs. Tow-wouse,

to

run in debt, and then refuse to part with your money, because you have a value for it. I ne|ver knew any piece of gold of more value than as many shillings as it would change for.

Not to preserve my life from starving, nor to re|deem it from a robber, would I part with this dear piece,

answered Joseph. 'What,' (says Mrs. Tow-wouse)

I suppose it was given you by some vile trollop, some miss or other; if it had been the present of a virtuous woman, you would not have had such a value for it. My husband is a fool if he parts with the horse with|out being paid for him.

No, no, I can't part with the horse indeed till I have the money,

cried Tow-wouse. A resolution highly com|mended by a lawyer then in the yard, who declar|ed Mr. Tow-wouse might justify the detainer.

As we cannot therefore at present get Mr. Jo|seph out of the inn, we shall leave him in it, and carry our reader on after parson Adams, who, his mind being perfectly at ease, fell into a contempla|tion on a passage in AEschylus, which entertained him for three miles together, without suffering him once to reflect on his fellow-traveller.

At length, having spun out his thread, and being now at the summit of a hill, he cast his eyes back|wards, and wondered that he could not 〈◊〉〈◊〉 any sign of Joseph. As he left him ready to mount the horse, he could not apprehend any mischief had hap|pened, neither could he suspect that he missed his way, it being so broad and plain: the only reason which presented itself to him, was, that he had met with an acquaintance who had prevailed with him to delay some time in discourse.

He therefore resolved to proceed slowly forwards, not doubting but that he should be shortly overtak|en

and soon came to a large water, which filling the whole road, he saw no method of passing unless by wading through, which he accordingly did up to his middle; but was no sooner got on the other side, than he perceived, if he had looked over the hedge, he would have found a foot-path capable of con|ducting him without wetting his 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

His surprize at Joseph's not coming up grew now very troublesome: he began to fear he knew not what; and as he determined to move no far|ther, and if he did not shortly overtake him, to re|turn back, he wished to find a house of publick en|tertainment where he might dry 〈◊〉〈◊〉 clothes, and re|fresh himself with a pint: but seeing not such, for no other reason than 〈◊〉〈◊〉 he did not cast his eyes a hundred yards forwards he sat himself down on a stile, and pulled out his AEschylus.

A fellow passing presently by, Adams asked him, if he could direct him to an ale-hou••e. The fel|low, who had just left it, and perceived the house and sign to be within sight, thinking he had jeered him, and being of a morose temper, bad him f••llow his nose and be••d—n••d. Adams told him he was a saucy jackanapes; upon which the fellow turned about angrily: but perceiving Adams clench his fist, he thought proper to go on without taking any farther notice.

A horseman following immediately after, and be|ing asked the same question, answered, Friend, there is one within a stone's-throw; I believe you may see it before you. Adams, lifting up his eyes, cried, I protest and so there is: and, thanking his informer, proceeded directly to it.

CHAP. III.

The opinion of two lawyers concerning the same gen|tleman, with Mr. Adams's enquiry into the religion of his 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

HE had just entered the house, had called for his pint, and seated himself, when two horsemen came to the door, and fastening their horses to the rails, alighted. They said there was a violent show|er of rain coming on, which they intended to wea|ther there, and went into a little room by them|selves, not perceiving Mr. Adams.

One of these immediately asked the other, if he had seen a more comical adventure a great while? Upon which the other said,

he doubted whether by law, the landlord could justify detaining the horse for his corn and hay.

But the former answered,

undoubtedly he can; it is an adjudged case, and I have known it tried.

Adams, who tho' he was, as the reader may sus|pect, a little inclined to forgetfulness, never want|ed more than a hint to remind him, over-hearing their discourse, immediately suggested to himself that this was his own horse, and that he had for|got to pay for him, which, upon enquiry, he was certified of by the gentlemen; who added, that the horse was likely to have more rest than food, un|less he was paid for.

The poor parson resolved to return presently to the inn, tho' he knew no more than Joseph, how to procure his horse his liberty: he was however prevailed on to stay under cover, 'till the shower, which was now very violent, was over.

The three travellers then sat down together over

a mug of good beer; when Adams, who had ob|served a gentleman's house as he pa••ed along the road, enquired to whom it belonged: one of the horsemen had no sooner mentioned the owner's name, than the other began to revile him in the most opprobrio••s terms. The English language scarce affords a single reproachful word, which he did not vent on this occasion. He charged him likewise with many particular facts. He said,—

he no more regarded a field of wheat when he was hunting, than he did the highway; that he had injured several poor farmers by trampling their corn under his horse's heels; and if any of them begged him with the utmost submission to refrain, his horse whip was always ready to do them justice.

He said,

that he was the greatest tyrant to the neighbours in every other instance, and would not suffer a farmer to keep a gun, tho' he might justify it by law; and in his own family so cruel a master, that he never kept a servant a twelvemonth. In his capacity as a justice,

continued he,

he behaves so partially, that he commits or acquits just as he is in the hu|mour, without any regard to truth or evidence: the devil may carry any one before him for me; I would rather be tried before some judges than be a prosecutor before him: if I had an estate in the neighbourhood▪ I would sell it for half the value, rather than live near him.

Adams shook his head, and said,

he was sorry such men were suffered to proceed with impu|nity, and that riches could set any man above law.

The reviler a little after retiring into the yard, the gentleman who had first mentioned his name to Adams, began to assure him,

that his companion was a prejudiced person. It is true,

says he, perhaps, that he may have sometimes pursued his game over a field of corn, but he hath always made the party ample satisfaction; that so far from tyrannizing over his neighbours, or taking away their guns, he himself knew seve|ral farmers not qualified, who not only kept guns, but killed game with them. That he was the best of masters to his servants, and several of them had grown old in his service. That he was the best justice of peace in the kingdom, and to his certain knowledge, had decided many dif|ficult points, which were referred to him, with the greatest equity, and the highest wisdom. And he verily believed, several persons would give a year's purchase more for an estate near him, than under the wings of any other great man.

He had just finished his encomium, when his companion returned, and acquainted him the storm was over. Upon which, they pre|sently mounted their horses and departed.

Adams, who was in the utmost anxiety at those different characters of the same person, asked his host if he know the gentleman: for he began to imagine they had by mistake been speaking of two several gentlemen. 'No, no, master!' an|swered the host, a shrewd cunning fellow,

I know the gentlemen very well of whom they have been speaking, as I do the gentleman who spoke of him. As for riding over other mens corn, to my knowledge he hath not been on horseback these two years. I never heard he did any injury of that kind; and as to making re|paration, he is not so free of his money as that comes to neither. Nor did I ever hear of his taking away any man's gun; nay, I know seve|ral who have guns in their houses: but as for

killing game with them, no man is stricter; and I believe he would ruin any who did. You heard one of the gentlemen say, he was the worst master in the world, and the other that he is the best: but for my own part, I know all his ser|vants, and never heard from any of them that he was either one or the other.—

'Aye! aye!' says Adams.

and how doth he behave as a justice, pray▪

'Faith, Friend,' answered the host,

I question whether he is in the commission: the only cause I have heard he hath decided a great while, was one between those very two persons who just went out of this house; and I am sure he determined that justly, for I heard the whole matter.

'Which did he decide it in favour of,' quoth Adams?

I think I need not answer that question,

cried the host,

after the different characters you have heard of him. It is not my business to contradict gentlemen, while they are drinking in my house; but I knew neither of them spoke a syllable of truth.

'God forbid!' (said Adams)

that men should arrive at such a pitch of wickedness to belye the character of their neighbour from a little private affection, or, what is infinitely worse, a private spite. I ra|ther believe we have mistaken them, and they mean two other persons: for there are many houses on the road.

'Why prithee, friend,' cries the host,

dost thou pretend never to have told a lye in thy life?

Never a malicious one, I am certain,

answered Adams;

nor with a de|sign to injure the reputation of any man living.

'Pugh! malicious; no, no,' replied the host;

not malicious with a design to hang a man, or bring him into trouble; but surely out of love to one's self, one must speak better of a friend than

an enemy.

Out of love to yourself! you should confine yourself to truth,

says Adams,

for by doing otherwise, you injure the noblest part of yourself, your immortal soul. I can hardly believe any man such an ideot to risque the loss of that by any trifling gain, and the greatest gain in this world is but dirt in compa|rison of what shall be revealed hereafter.

Up|on which the host, taking up the cup, with a smile, drank a health to Hereafter: adding, he was for something present. 'Why,' says Adams very gravely, 'Do not you believe another world?' To which the host answered,

yes, he was no atheist.

And you believe you have an immor|tal soul,

cries Adams. He answered,

God forbid he should not.

'And heaven and hell?' said the parson.' The host then bid him

not to profane; for those were things not to be men|tioned nor thought of but in church.

Adams asked him,

why he went to church, if what he learned there had no influence on his conduct in life?

'I go to church,' answered the host, 'to say my prayers and behave godly.'

And dost not thou,

cried Adams,

believe what thou hearest at church?

'Most part of it, master,' returned the host.

And doth not thou then trem|ble,

cries Adams,

at the thought of eternal pu|nishment?

'As for that, master,' said he,

I never once thought about it: but what signifies talking about matters so far off? The mug is out, shall I draw another?

Whilst he was going for that purpose, a stage-coach drove up to the door. The coach-man com|ing into the house, was asked by the mistress, what passengers he had in his coach? A parcel of squin|ny-gut b—s, (says he) I have a good mind to over|turn

them; you won't prevail upon them to drink any thing, I assure you. Adams asked him if he had not seen a young man on horseback on the road, (describing Joseph.) Aye, said the coachman, a gen|tlewoman in my coach that is his acquaintance re|deemed him and his horse; he would have been here before this time, had not the storm driven him to shelter. God bless her, said Adams, in a rap|ture; nor could he delay walking out to satisfy himself who this charitable woman was; but what was his surprize, when he saw his old acquaintance Madam Slipslop? Her's indeed was not so great, because she had been informed by Joseph, that he was on the road. Very civil were the salutations on both sides; and Mrs. Slipslop rebuked the host|ess for denying the gentleman to be there when she asked for him. But indeed the poor woman had not erred designedly: for Mrs. Slipslop asked for a clergyman; and she had unhappily mistaken Adams for a person travelling to a neighbouring fair with the thimble and button, or s••me other such operati|on: for he marched in a swinging great, but short, white coat with black buttons, a short wig, and a hat, which so far from having a black hatband, had nothing black about it.

Joseph was now come up, and Mrs. Slipslop would have had him quit his horse to the parson and come himself into the coach: but he absolutely re|fused, saving, he thanked heaven he was well enough recovered 〈◊〉〈◊〉 be very able to ride, and added, he hoped he knew his duty better than to ride in a coach, while Mr. Adams was on horseback.

Mrs. Slipslop would have persisted longer, had not a ••••dy in the coach put a short end to the dis|pute, by refusing to suffer a f••llow in a livery to ride in the same coach with herself: so it was at length

agreed that Adams should fill the vacant place in the coach, and Joseph should proceed on horseback.

They had not proceeded far before Mrs. Slipslop addressing herself to the parson, spoke thus:

There hath been a strange alteration in our family, Mr. Adams, since Sir Thomas's death.

A strange alteration indeed!

says Adams,

as I gather from some hints which have dropped from Joseph.

'Aye,' says she,

I could never have believed it, but the longer one lives in the world, the more one sees. So Joseph hath given you hints.

—

But of what nature will always remain a perfect secret with me,

cries the parson;

he forced me to pro|mise before he would communicate any thing. I am indeed concerned to find her ladyship behave in so unbecoming a manner. I always thought her in the main a good lady, and should never have suspected her of thoughts so unworthy a Christian, and with a young lad her own servant.

'These things are no secrets to me, I assure you,' cries Slipslop;

and I believe they will be none any where shortly: for ever since the boy's departure, she hath behaved more like a mad-woman than any thing else.

Truly, I am heartily concern|ed,

says Adams,

for she was a good sort of a la|dy; indeed I have often wished she had attended a little more constantly at the service, but she hath done a great deal of good in the parish.

'O Mr. Adams!' says Slipslop,

people that don't see all, often know nothing. Many things have been giv|en away in our family, I do assure you, without her knowledge. I have heard you say in the pul|pit we ought not to brag: but indeed I can't avoid saying, i•• she had kept the keys herself, the poor would have wanted many a cordial which I have let them have. As for my late master, he was as

worthy a man as ever lived, and would have done infinite good if he had not been controlled: but he loved a quiet life, heavens rest his soul! I am con|fident he is there, and enjoys a quiet life, which some folks would not allow him here.

Adams answered, 'he had never heard this before, and was mistaken, if she herself,' (for he remembered she used to commend her mistress and blame her mas|ter) 'had not formerly been of another opinion.' 'I don't know,' replied she,

what I might once think: but now I am confidious matters are as I tell you: the world will shortly see who hath been deceived: for my part I say nothing, but that it is wondersome how people can carry all things with a grave face.

Thus Mr. Adams and she discoursed, 'till they came opposite to a great house which stood at some distance from the road; a lady in the coach spying it, cried, Yonder lives the unfortunate Leonora, if one can call a woman unfortunate whom we must own at the same time guilty, and the author of her own calamity. This was abundantly sufficient to awaken the curiosity of Mr. Adams, as indeed it did that of the whole company, who jointly solicit|ed the lady to acquaint them with Leonora's histo|ry, since it seemed, by what she had said, to contain something remarkable.

The lady, who was perfectly well bred, did not require many entreaties, and having only wished their entertainment might make amends for the company's attention, she began in the following manner.

CHAP. IV.

The history of Leonora, or the unfortunate jilt.

LEONORA was the daughter of a gentleman of fortune; she was tall and well-shaped, with a sprightliness in her countenance, which often at|tracts beyond more regular features joined with an insipid air; nor is this kind of beauty less apt to de|ceive than allure the good humour which it indi|cates, being often mistaken for good-nature, and the vivacity for true understanding.

Leonora, who was now at the age of eighteen, lived with an aunt of her's in a town in the north of England. She was an extreme lover of gaiety; and very rarely missed a ball, or any other publick as|sembly; where she had frequently opportunities of satisfying a greedy appetite of vanity with the pre|ference which was given her by the men to almost every other woman present.

Among many young fellows who were particular in their gallantries towards her, Horatio soon dis|tinguished himself in her eyes beyond all his compe|titors; she danced with more than ordinary gaiety when he happened to be her partner; neither the fairness of the evening nor the musick of the night|ingale, could lengthen her walk like his company. She affected no longer to understand the civilities of others: whilst she inclined so attentive an air to e|very compliment of Horatio, that she often smiled even when it was too delicate for her comprehensi|on.

'Pray, Madam,' says Adams, 'who was this squire Horatio?'

Horatio, says the lady, was a young gentleman of 〈◊〉〈◊〉

a good family bred to the law, and had been some few years called to the degree of a barrister. His face and person were such as the generality allowed handsome: but he had a dignity in his air very rare|ly to be seen. His temper was of the saturnine complexion, and without the least taint of morose|ness. He had wit and humour, with an inclinati|on to satire, which he indulged rather too much.

This gentleman, who had contracted the most violent passion for Leonora, was the last person who perceived the probability of its success. The whole town had made the match for him, before he him|self had drawn a confidence from her actions suffi|cient to mention his passion to her; for it was his opinion, and perhaps he was there in the right) that it is highly impoli••••ck to talk seriously of love to a woman before you have made such a progress in her affections, that she herself expects and desires to hear it.

But whatever diffidence the fears of a lover may create, which are apt to magnify every favour con|ferred on a rival, and to see the little advances to|wards themselves through the other end of the per|spective; it was impossible that Horatio's passion should so blind his discernment, as to prevent his conceiving hopes from the behaviour of Leonora, whose fondness for him was now as visible to an in|different person in their company, as his for her.

I never knew any of these forward sluts come to good,

(says the lady, who refused Joseph's en|trance into the coach)

nor shall I wonder at any thing she doth in the sequel.

The lady proceeded in her story thus: it was in the midst of a gay conversation in the walks one evening, when Horatio whispered Leonora, that he was desirous to take a turn or two with her in pri|vate;

for that he had something to communicate to her of great consequence.

Are you sure it is of consequence? said she smiling—

I hope, answer|ed he,

you will think so too, since the whole fu|ture happiness of my life must depend on the e|vent.

Leonora, who very much suspected what was coming, would have deferred it till another time: but Horatio, who had more than half conquered the difficulty of speaking, by the first motion, was so very importunate, that she at last yielded, and leav|ing the rest of the company, they turned aside into an unfrequented walk.

They had retired far out of the sight of the company, both maintaining a strict silence. At last Horatio made a full stop, and taking Leonora, who stood pale and trembling, gently by the hand, he fetched a deep sigh, and then looking on her eyes with all the tenderness imaginable, he cried out in a faltering accent;

O Leonora! it is ne|cessary for me to declare to you on what the fu|ture happiness of my life must be founded! Must I say, there is something belonging to you which is a bar to my happiness, and which unless you will part with, I must be miserable?

What can that be,

replied Leonora?—'No wonder,' said he,

you are surprized that I should make an objection to any thing which is yours, yet sure you may guess, since it is the only one which the riches of the world, if they were mine, should purchase of me—Oh it is that which you must part with, to bestow all the rest! Can Leonora, or rather will she, doubt longer?—Let me then whisper it in her ears,—It is your name, Ma|dam. It is by parting with that, by your con|descension to be for ever mine, which must at

once prevent me from being the most miserable, and will render me the happiest of mankind.

Leonora, covered with blushes, and with as an|gry a look as she could possibly put on, told him,

that had she suspected what his declaration would have been, he should not have decoyed her from her company; that he had so surprized and frighted her, that she begged him to convey her back as quick as possible;

which he, trembling very near as much as herself, did.

More fool he, cried Slipslop, it is a sign he knew very little of our sect.

'Truly, madam,' said Adams,

I think you are in the right, I should have insisted to know a piece of her mind, when I had carried matters so far.

But Mrs. Grave|airs desired the lady to omit all such fulsome stuff in her story; for that it made her sick.

Well then, Madam, to be as concise as possible, said the lady, many weeks had not pass'd after this interview, before Horatio and Leonora were what they call on a good footing together. All ceremo|nies except the last were now over: the writings were now drawn, and every thing was in the ut|most forwardness preparative to the putting Hora|tio in possession of all his wishes. I will, if you please, repeat you a letter from each of them which I have got by heart, and which will give you no small idea of their passion on both sides.

Mrs. Grave-airs objected to hearing these let|ters: but being put to the vote, it was carried a|gainst her by all the rest in the coach; parson A|dams contending for it with the utmost vehe|mence.

HORATIO to LEONORA.

HOW vain, most adorable creature, is the pursuit of pleasure in the absence of an object to which the mind is entirely devoted, unless it have some relation to that object! I was last night condemned to the society of men of wit and learning, which, however agreeable it might have formerly been to me, now only gave me a suspicion that they imputed my ab|sence in conversation to the true cause. For which reason, when your engagements forbad me the extatic happiness of seeing you, I am al|ways desirous to be alone; since my sentiments for Leonora are so delicate, that I cannot 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the apprehension of another's prying into those delightful endearments with which the warm imagination of a lover will sometimes indulge him, and which I suspect my eyes then betray. To fear this discovery of our thoughts, may per|haps appear too ridiculous a nicety to minds not susceptible of all the tendernesses of this delicate passion. And surely we shall suspect there are few such, when we consider that it requires every human virtue, to exert itself in its full ex|tent. Since the beloved, whose happiness it ultimately respects, may give us charming op|portunities of being brave in her defence, gene|rous to her wants, compassionate to her afflicti|ons, grateful to her kindness; and, in the same manner, of exercising every other virtue, which he who would not do to any degree, and that with the utmost rapture, can never deserve the name of a lover: It is therefore with the view to the delicate modesty of your mind that I cul|tivate

is so purely in my own; and it is that which will sufficiently suggest to you the unea|siness I bear from those liberties, which men, to whom the world allow politeness, will some|times give themselves on these occasions.

Can I tell you with what eagerness I expect the arrival of that blest day, when I shall expe|rience the falshood of a common assertion, that the greatest human happiness consists in hope? A doctrine which no person had ever stronger reason to believe than myself at present, since none ever tasted such bliss as fires my bosom with the thoughts of spending my future days with such a companion, and that every action of my life will have the glorious satisfaction of conducing to your happiness.

* 5.1 LEONORA to HORATIO.

THE refinement of your mind has been so evidently proved by every word and action ever since I had first the pleasure of knowing you, that I thought it impossible my good opini|on of Horatio could have been heightened to any additional proof of merit. This very thought was my amusement when I received your last letter, which, when I opened, I confess I was surprized to find the delicate sentiments expres|sed there, so far exceeded what I thought could come even from you, altho' I know all the ge|nerous principles human nature is capable of, are centered in your breast, that words cannot paint what I feel on the reflection, that my hap|piness

shall be the ultimate end of all your actions.

Oh Horatio! what a life must that be, where the meanest domestic cares are sweetened by the pleasing consideration, that the man on earth who best deserves, and to whom you are most inclined to give your affections, is to reap either profit or pleasure from all you do! In such a case toils must be turned into diversions, and nothing but the unavoidable inconveniencies of life can make us remember that we are mortal.

If the solitary turn of your thoughts, and the desire of keeping them undiscovered, makes even the conversation of men of wit an learning te|dious to you, what anxious hours must I spend who am condemned by custom to the conver|sation of women, whose natural curiosity leads them to pry into all my thoughts, and whose en|vy can never suffer Horatio's heart to be posses|sed by any one without forcing them into ma|licious designs against the person who is so hap|py as to possess it: but indeed, if ever envy can possibly have any excuse, or even alleviation, it is in this case, where the good is so great, and it must be equally natural to all to wish it for themselves, nor am I ashamed to own it: and to your merit, Horatio, I am obliged, that pre|vents my being in that most uneasy of all the situations I can figure in my imagination, of being led by inclination to love the person whom my own judgment forces me to condemn.

Matters were in so great forwardness between this fond couple, that the day was fixed for their marriage, and was now within a fortnight, when the sessions chanced to be held for that county in a town about twenty miles distance from that which

is the scene of our story. It seems it is usual for the young gentlemen of the bar to repair to these ses|sions, not so much for the sake of profit, as to shew their parts, and learn the law of the justices of peace: for which purpose one of the wisest and gravest of all the justices is appointed speaker or chairman, as they modestly call it, and he reads them a lecture, and instructs them in the true knowledge of the law.

You are here guilty of a little mistake, says A|dams, which, if you please, I will correct; I have attended at one of these quarter-sessions, where I observed the counsel taught the justices, instead of learning any thing of them.

It is not very material, said the lady. Hither re|paired Horatio, who as he hoped by his profession to advance his fortune, which was not at present very large, for the sake of his dear Leonora, he resolved to spare no pains, nor lose any opportunity of im|proving or advancing himself in it.

The same afternoon in which he left the town, as Leonora stood at her window, a coach and six pas|sed by: which she declared to be the compleatest, genteelest, prettiest equipage she ever saw; adding these remarkable words,

O I am in love with that equipage!

which, tho' her friend Florella at that time did not greatly regard, she hath since remem|bered.

In the evening an assembly was held, which Le|onora honoured with her company: but intended to pay her dear Horatio the compliment of refusing to dance in his absence.

O why have not women as good resolution to maintain their vows, as they have often good incli|nations in making them!

The gentleman who owned the coach and six

came to the assembly. His clothes were as remark|ably fine as his equipage could be. He soon at|tracted the eyes of the company; all the smarts, all the silk waistcoats with silver and gold edgings, were eclipsed in an instant.

Madam, said Adams, if it be not impertinent, I should be glad to know how this gentleman was drest.

Sir, answered the lady, I have been told he had on a cut-velvet coat of a cinnamon colour, lined with a pink satten, embroidered all over with gold: his waistcoat, which was cloth of silver, was em-broidered with gold likewise. I cannot be parti|cular as to the rest of his dress: but it was all in the French fashion; for Bellarmine (that was his name) was just arrived from Paris.

This fine figure did not more engage the eyes of every lady in the assembly, than Leonora did his. He had scarce beheld her, but he stood motionless and fixed as a statue, or at least would have done so, if good breeding had permitted him. However, he carried it so far, before he had power to correct himself, that every person in the room easily dis|covered where his admiration was settled. The o|ther ladies began to single out their former partners, all perceiving who would be Bellarmine's choice; which they however endeavoured, by all possible means, to prevent: Many of them saying to Leo|nora,

O, Madam, I suppose we shan't have the pleasure of seeing you dance to-night;

and then crying out, in Bellarmine's hearing,

O Leonora will not dance, I assure you; her partner is not here.

One maliciously attempted to prevent her, by sending a disagreeable fellow to ask her, that so she might be obliged either to dance with him, or sit down: but this scheme proved abortive.

Leonora saw herself admired by the fine stranger, and envied by every woman present. Her little heart began to flutter within her, and her head was agitated with a convulsive motion; she seemed as if she would speak to several of her acquaintance, but had nothing to say: for as she would not mention her present triumph; so she could not disengage her thoughts one moment from the contemplation of it: she had never tasted any thing like this happiness. She had before known what it was to torment a sin|gle woman; but to be hated and secretly cursed by a whole assembly, was a joy reserved for this blessed moment. As this vast profusion of ecstacy had confounded her unsterstanding; so there was no|thing so foolish as her behaviour; she played a thou|sand childish tricks, distorted her person into seve|ral shapes, and her face into several laughs, without any reason. In a word, her carriage was as absurd as her desires, which were, to affect an insensibility of the stranger's admiration, and at that same time a triumph, from that admiration, over every wo|man in the room.

In this temper of mind, Bellarmine, having en|quired who she was, advanced to her, and with a low bow begged the honour of dancing with her, which she with a low curt'sy immediately granted. She danced with him all night, and enjoyed perhaps the highest pleasure that she was capable of feeling.

At these words Adams fetched a deep groan, which frighted the ladies, who told him,

they hop|ed he was not ill.

He answered

he groaned on|ly for the folly of Leonora.

Leonora retired (continued the lady) about six in the morning, but not to rest. She tumbled and tos|sed in her bed, with very short intervals of sleep, and those entirely filled with dreams of the equipage,

and fine clothes she had seen, and the balls, operas, and ridottos, which had been the subject of their conversation.

In the afternoon, Bellarmine, in the dear coach and ••ix, came to wait on her. He was indeed charmed with her person, and was, on enquiry, so well pleased with the circumstances of her father (for he himself, notwithstanding all his finery, was not quite so rich as Croesus or an Attalus) 'Attalus,' says Mr. Adams:

but pray how came you ac|quainted with these names?

The lady smiled at the question and proceeded—He was so pleased I say, that he resolved to make his addresses to her di|rectly. He did so accordingly, and that with so much warmth and briskness, that he quickly baffled her weak repulses, and obliged the lady to refer him to her father, who, she knew, would quickly de|clare in favour of a coach and six.

Thus, what Horatio had by sighs and tears, love and tenderness, been so long obtaining, the French-English Bellarmine with gaiety and gallantry pos|sessed himself of in an instant. In other words, what modesty had employed a full year in raising, impudence demolished in twenty-four hours.

Here Adams groaned a second time; but the la|dies, who began to smoak him, took no notice.

From the opening of the assembly till the end of Bellarmine's visit, Leonora had scarce once thought of Horatio; but he now began, though an unwel|come guest, to enter into her mind. She wished she had seen the charming Bellarmine and his charm|ing equipage, before matters had gone so far.

Yet why (says she) should I wish to have seen him be|fore; or what signifies it that I have seen him now? Is not Horatio my lover? almost my hus|band? Is he not as handsome, nay handsomer,

than Bellarmine? Aye, but Bellarmine is the gen|teeler and the finer man; yes, that he must be al|lowed. Yes, yes, he is that certainly. But did not I no longer than yesterday love Horatio more than all the world? Aye, but yesterday I had not seen Bellarmine. But doth not Horatio doat on me, and may he not in despair break his heart if I abandon him? Well, and hath not Bellarmine a heart to break too? Yes, but I promised Horatio first; but that was poor Bellarmine's misfortune; if I had seen him first, I should certainly have pre|ferred him. Did not the dear creature prefer me to every woman in the assembly, when every She was laying out for him? When was it in Horatio's power to give me such an instance of affection? Can he give me an equipage, or any of those things which Bellarmine will make me mistress of? How vast is the difference between being the wife of a poor counsellor, and the wife of one of Bellarmine's fortune! If I marry Horatio, I shall triumph over no more than one rival: but by mar|rying Bellarmine, I shall be the envy of all my ac|quaintance. What happiness!—〈◊〉〈◊〉 can I suffer Horatio to die? for he hath sworn he cannot sur|vive my loss: but perhaps he may not die; if he should, can I prevent it? Must I sacrifice myself to him? besides, Bellarmine may be as miserable for me too.

She was thus arguing with herself, when some young ladies called her to the walks, and a little relieved her anxiety for the present.

The next morning Bellarmine breakfasted with her in presence of her aunt, whom her sufficiently in|formed of his passion for Leonora: he was no soon|er withdrawn, than the old lady began to advise her niece on this occasion—

You see, child, (says she) what fortune hath thrown in your way; and I

hope you will not withstand your own prefer|ment.

Leonora sighing,

begged her not to mention any such thing, when she knew her en|gagements to Horatio.

'Engagements to a fig,' cry'd the aunt;

you should thank heaven on your knees, that you have it yet in your power to break them. Will any woman hesitate a moment, whether she shall ride in a coach, or walk on foot all the days of her life?—But Bellarmine drives six, and Horatio not even a pair.

'Yes,'

but, Madam, what will the world say?

answered Le|onora; 'will not they condemn me?'

The world is always on the side of prudence,

cries the aunt,

and would surely condemn you, if you sacrificed your interest to any motive whatever. O, I know the world very well: and you shew your igno|rance, my dear, by your objection. O' my con|science! the world is wiser. I have lived longer in it than you; and I assure you there is not any thing worth our regard besides money: nor did I ever know any one person who married from other considerations, who did not afterwards heartily re|pent it. Besides, if we examine the two men, can you prefer a sneaking fellow, who hath been bred at the university, to a fine gentleman just come from his travels?—All the world must allow Bel|larmine to be a fine gentleman, positively a fine gentleman and a handsome man.

—

Perhaps, Madam, I should not doubt it if I knew not how to be handsomely off with the other.

O leave that to me,

says the aunt. You know your father

hath not been acquainted with the affair. Indeed, for my part, I thought it might do well enough, not dreaming of such an offer: but I'll disengage you; leave me to give the fellow an answer. I warrant you shall have no farther trouble.

Leonora was at length satisfied with her aunt's reasoning; and, Bellarmine supping with her that evening, it was agreed he should the next morning go to her father and propose the match, which she consented should be consummated at his return.

The aunt retired soon after supper, and the lo|vers being left together, Bellarmine began in the following manner:

Yes, Madam, this coat I as|sure you was made at Paris, and I defy the best English taylor even to imitate it. There is not one of them can cut, Madam, they can't cut. If you observe how this skirt is turned, and this sleeve, a clumsy English rascal can do nothing like it.—Pray how do you like my liveries?

Leonora answered, 'she thought them very pretty.'

All French,

says he,

I assure you, except the great coats; I never trust any thing more than a great coat to an Englishman; you know one must en|courage our own people what one can, especially as, before I had a place, I was in the country interest, he, he, he! but for myself, I would see the dirty island at the bottom of the sea, rather than wear a single rag of English work about me; and I am sure after you have made one tour to Paris, you will be of the same opinion with re|gard to your own clothes. You can't conceive what an addition a French dress would be to your beauty. I positively assure you, at the first opera I saw since I came over, I mistook the English ladies for chambermaids, he, he, he!

With such sort of polite discourse did the gay Bellarmine entertain his beloved Leonora, when the door opened on a sudden, and Horatio entered the room. Here 'tis impossible to express the sur|prize of Leonora.

'Poor woman,' says Mrs. Slipslop,

what a

terrible quandary she must be in!

'Not at all,' says Miss Grave-Airs,

such sluts can never be confounded.

She must have then more than Corinthian assurance,

said Adams;

aye more than Lais herself.

'A long silence,' continued the lady,

prevail|ed in the whole company: If the familiar en|trance of Horatio struck the greatest astonishment into Bellarmine, the unexpected presence of Bel|larmine no less surprized Horatio.

At length Leonora collecting all the spirit she was mistress of, addressed herself to the latter, and pretended to wonder at ••he reason of so late a visit.

I should, indeed,

answered he,

have made some apology for disturbing you at this hour, had not my finding you in company assured me I do not break in upon your repose.

Bellarmine rose from his chair, traversed the room in a minuet step, and humm'd an opera tune, while Horatio advanc|ing to Leonora, asked her in a whisper, if that gentleman was not a relation of hers; to which she answered with a smile, or rather sneer,

No, he is no relation of mine yet;

adding,

she could not guess the meaning of his question.

Horatio told her softly,

it did not arise from jea|lousy.

'Jealousy!'

I assure you, it would be very strange in a common acquaintance to give himself any of those airs.

These words a little surprized Horatio; but before he had time to answer, Bellarmine danced up to the lady, and told her,

her feared he interrupted some business be|tween her and the gentleman.

I can have no business,

said she,

with the gentleman, nor any other, which need be any secret to you.

'You'll pardon me,' said Horatio,

if I desire to know who this gentleman is, who is to be en|trusted

with all our secrets.

You'll know soon enough,

cries Leonora;

but I can't guess what secrets can ever pass between us of such mighty consequence.

'No, Madam!' cries Horatio,

I'm sure you would not have me understand you in earnest.

'Tis indifferent to me,' says she,

how you understand me; but I think so unrea|sonable a visit is difficult to be understood at all, at at••east when people find one engaged; though one's servants do not den•• one, one may expect a well-bred person should soon take the hint.

'Madam,' said Horatio,

I did not imagine any engagement with a stranger, as it seems this gen|tleman is, would have made my visit imperti|nent, or that any such ceremonies were to be preserved between persons in our situation.

'Sure you are in a dream,' said she,

or would persuade me that I am in one. I know no pre|tensions a common acquaintance can have to lay aside the ceremonies of good breeding.

'Sure,' said he,

I am in a dream; for it is impossible I should be really esteemed a common acquaintance by Leonora, after what has passed between us!

Passed between us! Do you intend to affront me before this gentleman?

D—n me, affront the lady,

says Bellarmine, cocking his hat, and strut|ting up to Horatio.

Does any man dare affront this lady before me, d—n me?

'Hearkee, Sir,' says Horatio,

I would advise you to lay aside that fierce air; for I am mightily deceived, if this lady has not a violent desire to get your worship a good drubbing.

'Sir, said Bellarmine,

I have the honour to be her protector, and d—n me, if I understand your meaning.

'Sir,' an|swered Horatio,

she is rather your protectress: but give yourself no more airs, for you see I am

prepared for you,

(shaking his whip at him) Oh! Servi••eur tres humble,' says Bellarmine, Je vous entend perfaitment bien.' At which time the aunt, who had heard of Horatio's visit, enter|ed the room, and soon satisfied all his doubts. She convinced him that he was never more awake in his life, and that nothing more extraordinary had happened in his three days absence, than a small alteration in the affections of Leonora; who now burst into tears, and wondered what reason she had given him to use her in so barbarous a manner. Horatio desired Bellarmine to withdraw with him: but the ladies prevented it, by laying violent hands on the latter; upon which, the former took his leave without any great ceremony, and departed, leaving the lady with his rival to consult for his safety, which Leonora feared her indiscretion might have endangered: but the aunt comforted her with assurances, that Horatio would not venture his person against so accomplished a cavalier as Bel|larmine; and that, being a lawyer, he would seek revenge in his own way, and the most they had to apprehend from him was an action.

They at length therefore agreed to permit Bel|larmine to retire to his lodgings, having first settled all matters relating to the journey which he was to undertake in the morning, and their prepara|tions for the nuptials at his return.

But alas! as wise men have observed, the seat of valour is not the countenance; and many a grave and plain man, will, on a just provocation, betake himself to that mischievous metal, cold iron; while men of a fiercer brow, and sometimes with that em|blem of courage, a cockade, will more prudently decline it.

Leonora was waked in the morning, from a visi|onary

coach and six, with the dismal account, that Bellarmine was run through the body by Horatio; that he lay languishing at an inn, and the surgeons had declared the wound mortal. She immediately leap'd out of the bed, danced about the room in a frantic manner, tore her hair, and beat her breast in all the agonies of despair; in which sad condition her aunt, who likewise arose at the news, found her. The good old lady applied her utmost art to com|fort her niece. She told her, while there was life

there was hope; but that if he should die, her af|fliction would be of no service to Bellarmine, and would only expose herself, which might probably keep her some time without any future offer; that as matters had happened, her wisest way would be to think no more of Bellarmine, but to endeavour to regain the affections of Horatio.

Speak not to me,

cry'd the disconsolate Leonora;

is it not owing to me, that poor Bellarmine has lost his life? have not these cursed charms

(at which words she looked stedfastly in the glass)

been the ruin of the most charming man of this age? Can I ever bear to contemplate my own face again?

(with her eyes still fixed on the glass.)

Am I not the murdress of the finest gentleman? no other woman in the town could have made any impressi|on on him.

'Never think of things past,' cries the aunt,

think of regaining the affections of Ho|ratio.

'What reason,' said the niece,

have I to hope he would forgive me? No, I have lost him as well as the other, and it was your wicked advice which was the occasion of all; your seduced me contrary to my inclinations, to abandon poor Horatio,

at which words she burst into tears;

you prevailed upon me, whether I would or no, to give up my affections for him; had it not been for

you, Bellarmine never would have entered into my thoughts; had not his addresses been backed by your persuasions, they never would have made any impression on me; I should have defied all fortune and equipage in the world; but it was you, it was you, who got the better of my youth and simplicity, and forced me to lose my dear Ho|ratio for ever.

The aunt was almost borne down with this tor|rent of words; she however rallied all the strength she could, and drawing her month up into a purse, began:

I am not surprized, Niece, at this ingra|titude. Those who advise young women for their interest, must always expect such a return: I am convinced my brother will thank me for breaking off your match with Horatio at any rate.

That may not be in your power yet,

answered Leono|ra;

though it is very ungrateful in you to desire or attempt it, after the presents you have received from him.

(For indeed true it is, that many pre|sents, and some pretty valuable ones, had passed from Horatio to the old lady: but as true it is, that Bel|larmine, when he breakfasted with her and her niece, had complimented her with a brilliant from his finger, of much greater value than all she had touched of the other.)

The aunt's gall was on float to reply, when a ser|vant brought a letter into the room; which Leono|ra, hearing it came from Bellarmine, with great ea|gerness opened, and read as follows:

Most divine creature,

THE wound which I fear you have heard I re|ceived from my rival, is not like to be so fatal as those shot into my heart, which have been fired from your eyes, tout-brilliant. Those are

the only cannons by which I am to fall: for me surgeon gives me hopes of been soon able to attend your Ruelle; till when, unless you would do me an honour which I have scarce the Hardiesse to think of, your absence will be the greatest anguish can be felt by,

Madam,

Av•••• t••ute le respecte in the world, Your most obedient, most absolute Devote, BELLARMINE.

As soon as Leonora perceived such hopes of Bel|larmine's recovery, and that the gossip Fame had, according to custom, so enlarged his danger, she pre|sently abandoned all further thoughts of Horatio, and was soon reconciled to her aunt, who received her again into favour, with a more christian forgive|ness than we generally meet with. Indeed, it is possible, she might be a little alarmed at the hints which her niece had given her concerning the pre|sents. She might apprehend such rumours, should they get abroad, might injure a reputation, which, by frequenting church twice a day, and preserving the utmost rigour and strictness in her countenance and behaviour for many years, she had established.

Leonora's passion returned now for Bellarmine, with greater force after its small relaxation than ever. She proposed to her aunt to make him a visit in his confinement, which the old lady, with great and commendable prudence, advised her to decline: 'For,' says she,

should any accident intervene to p••••vent your intended match, too forward a beha|viour with this lover may injure you in the eyes of others. Every woman, till she is married, ought to consider of and provide against the possibility of

the affair's breaking off.

Leonora said,

she should be indifferent to whatever might happen in in such a case: for she had now so absolutely placed her affections on this dear man,

(so she cal|led him)

that if it was her misfortune to lose him, she should for ever abandon all thoughts of man|kind.

She therefore resolved to visit him, not|withstanding all the prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, and that very afternoon executed ••er resolution.

The lady was proceeding in her story, when the coach drove into the inn where the company were to dine, sorely to the dissatisfaction of Mr. Adams, whose ears were the most hungry part about him; he being, as the reader may perhaps guess, of an in|satiable curiosity, and heartily desirous of hearing the end of this amour, though he professed he could scarce wish success to a lady of so inconstant a dis|position.

CHAP. V.

A dreadful quarrel which happened at the inn where the company dined; with its bloody consequences to Mr. Adams.

AS soon as the passengers had alighted from the coach, Mr. Adams, as was his custom, made directly to the kitchen, where he found Joseph sit|ting by the fire, and the hostess anointing his leg: for the horse which Mr. Adams had borrowed of his clerk, had so violent a propensity to kneeling, that one would have thought it had been his trade as well as his master's; nor would he always give any notice of such his intention; he was often found on his knees when the rider least expected it. This

foible however was of no great inconvenience to the parson, who was accustomed to it, and as his legs almost touched the ground when he bestrode the beast, had but a little way to fall, and threw himself forward on such occasions with so much dexterity, that he never received any mischief? the horse and he frequently rolling many paces distance, and af|terwards both getting up and meeting as good friends as ever.

Poor Joseph, who had not been used to such kind of cattle, though an excellent horseman, did not so happily disengage himself; but falling with his leg under the beast, received a violent contusion, to which the good woman was, as we have said, apply|ing a warm hand, with some camphorated spirits, just at the time when the parson entered the kit|chen.

He had scarce expressed his concern for Joseph's misfortune, before the host likewise entered. He was by no means of Mr. Tow-wouse's gentle dis|position, and was indeed perfectly master of his house, and every thing in it but his guests.

This surly fellow, who always proportioned his respect to the appearance of a traveller, from God bless your honour, down to plain coming present|ly, observing his wife on her knees to a footman, cried out without considering his circumstances,

What a pox is the woman about? why don't you mind the company in the coach? Go and ask them what they will have for dinner?

'My dear,' says she, you know they can have nothing

but what is at the fire, which will be ready pre|sently; and really the poor young man's leg is very much bruised.

At which words, she fell to chafing more violently than before: the bell then happening to ring, he damn'd his wife, and

bid her go into the company, and not stand rub|bing there all day: for he did not believe the young fellow's leg was so bad as he pretended; and if it was, within twenty miles, he would find a surge|on to cut it off. Upon these words, Adams fetch|ed two strides across the room; and snapping his fingers over his head, muttered aloud▪ He would excommunicate such a wretch for a farthing; for he believed the devil had more humanity. These words occasioned a dialogue between Adams and the host, in which there were two or three sharp replies, till Joseph bade the latter know how to behave himself to his betters. At which the host (having first strictly surveyed Adams) scornfully repeating the word betters, flew into a rage, and telling Joseph he was as able to walk out of his house as he had been to walk into it, offered to lay violent hands on him; which Adams perceiving, dealt him so sound a compliment over his face with his fist, that the blood immediately gushed out of his nose in a stream. The host being un|willing to be out-done in courtesy, especially by a person of Adam's figure, returned the favour with so much gratitude, that the parson's nostrils began to look redder than usual. Upon which he again assailed his antagonist, and with another stroke laid him sprawling on the floor.

The hostess, who was a better wife than so sur|ly a husband deserved, seeing her husband all bloo|dy and stretched along, hastened presently to his assistance, or rather to revenge the blow, which to all appearance, was 〈◊〉〈◊〉 la••t he would ever receive; when lo! a pan 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of hog's-blood, which unluc|kily stood on the dresser, presented itself first to her hands. She seized it in her fury, and without any reflection discharged it into the parson's face, and

with so good an aim, that much the greater part first saluted his countenance, and trickled thence in so large a current down to his beard, and over his garments, that a more horrible spectacle was hardly to be seen, or even imagined. All which was perceived by Mrs. Slipslop, who entered the kitchen at that instant. This good gentlewoman, not being of a temper so extremely cool and pati|ent as perhaps was required to ask many questi|ons on this occasion, flew with great impetuosity at the hostess's cap, which, together with some of her hair, she plucked from her head in a moment, giving her at the same time several hearty cuffs in the face, which, by frequent practice on the inferi|or servants, she had learned an excellent knack of delivering with a good grace. Poor Joseph could hardly rise from his chair; the parson was em|ployed in wiping the blood from his eyes, which had entirely blinded him, and the landlord was but just beginning to stir, whilst Mrs. Slipslop, holding down the landlady's face with her left hand, made so dexterous an use of her right, that the poor woman began to roar in a key which alarmed all the company in the inn.

There happened to be in the inn at this time, besides the ladies who arrived in the stage-coach, the two gentlemen who were present at Mr. Tow-wouse's when Joseph was detained for his horse's meat, and whom we have before mentioned to have stopped at the ale-house with Adams. There was likewise a gentleman just returned from his tra|vels to Italy; all whom the horrid outcry of mur|der presently brought into the kitchen, where the several combatants were found in the postures al|ready de••cribed.

It was now no difficulty to put an end to the

fray, the conquerors being satisfied with the ven|geance they had taken, and the conquered having no appetite to renew the fight. The principal figure, and which engaged the eyes of all, was Adams, who was all over covered with blood, which the whole company concluded to be his own; and consequently imagined him no longer for this world. But the host, who had now reco|vered from his blow, and was risen from the ground, soon delivered them from this apprehen|sion, by damning his wife for wasting the hog's puddings, and telling her all would have been very well, if she had not intermeddled like a b—as she was; adding, he was very glad the gentlewoman had paid her, though not half what she deserved. The poor woman had indeed fared much the worst, having, besides the unmerciful cuffs received, lost a quantity of hair, which Mrs. Slipslop in triumph held in her left hand.

The traveller, addressing himself to Mrs. Grave|airs, desired her not to be frightened; for here had been only a little boxing, which he said to their disgracia the English were accustomata to: adding, it must be however a sight somewhat strange to him, who was just come from Italy, the Italians not being addicted to the cuffardo, but b••stonza, says he. He then went up to Adams, and telling him he looked like the ghost of Othello, bid him not shake his gory locks at him, for he could not say he did it. Adams very innocently answered, Sir, I am far from accusing you. He then re|turned to the lady, and cried, I find the bloody gentleman is uno insipido del nu••lo senso Dammata di me, if I have seen such a spectaculo in my way from Viterbo.

One of the gentlemen having learned from the

host the occasion of this bustle, and being assured by him that Adams had struck the first blow, whispered in his ear: he'd warrant he would re|cover. 'Recover! master,' said the host smiling:

Yes, yes, I am not afraid of dying with a blow or two neither; I am not such a chicken as that.

Pugh! said the gentleman, I mean you will recover damages in that action which undoubt|edly you intend to bring as soon as a writ can be returned from London; for you look like a man of too much spirit and courage to suffer any one to beat you without bringing your action against him: he must be a scandalous fellow indeed, who would put up a drubbing whilst the law is open to revenge it; besides he hath drawn blood from you and spoiled your coat; and the jury will give da|mages for that too. An excellent new coat upon my word, and now not worth a shilling!

I don't care, continued he, to intermeddle in these cases: but you have a right to my evidence; and if I am sworn, I must speak the truth. I saw you sprawling on the floor, and the blood gushing from your nostrils. You may take your own opi|nion; but was I in your circumstances, every drop of my blood should convey an ounce of gold into my pocket: remember I don't advise you to go to law; but if your jury were christians, they must give swinging damages. That's all.' 'Master,' cry'd the host, scratching his head,

I have no stomach to law, I thank you. I have seen enough of that in the parish, where two of my neighbours have been at law about a house, till they have both lawed themselves into a goal.

At which word he turn|ed about, and began to enquire again after his hog's puddings; nor would it probably have been a suffi|cient excuse for his wife, that she spilt them in his

defence, had not some awe of the company, especi|ally of the Italian traveller, who was a person of great dignity, withheld his rage. Whilst one of the above mentioned gentlemen was employed, as we have seen him, on the behalf of the landlord, the other was no less hearty on the side of Mr. Adams, whom he advised to bring his action immediately. He said the assault of the wi••e was in law the assault of the husband; for they were but one person; and he was liable to pay damages, which he said must be considerable, where so bloody a disposition appear|ed. Adams answered, if it was true that they were but one person, he had assaulted the wife; for he was sorry to own he had struck the husband the first blow. 'I am sorry you own it too,' cries the gen|tleman;

for it could not possibly appear to the court: for here was no evidence present but the lame man in the chair, whom I suppose to be your friend, and would consequently say nothing but what made for you.

'How, Sir,' says Adams,

do you take me for a villain, who would prosecute revenge in cold blood, and use unjustifiable means to obtain it? If you knew me and my order, I should think you affronted both.

At the word order, the gentleman stared, (for he was too bloody to be of any modern order of knights) and turning hastily about, said,

Every man knew his own bu|siness.

Matters being now composed, the company re|tired to their several apartments, the two gentlemen congratulating each other on the success of their good offices in procuring a perfect reconciliation between the contending parties; and the traveller went to his repast, crying, as the Italian poet says,

Je voi very well que tuta e••pace, So send up Dinner, good Bonifa••e.

The coachman began now to grow importu|nate with his passengers, whose entrance into the coach was retarded by Miss Grave-airs, insisting against the remonstrance of all the rest, that she would not admit a footman into the coach: for poor Joseph was too lame to mount a horse. A young lady, who was, as it seems, an earl's grand|daughter, begged it with almost tears in her eyes. Mr. Adams prayed, and Mrs. Slipslop scolded, but all to no purpose. She said

she would not demean herself to ride with a footman: that there were waggons on the road: that if the master of the coach desired it, she would pay for two pla|ces: but would suffer no such fellow to come in.

'Madam,' says Slipslop,

I am sure no one can refuse another coming into the stage-coach.

'I don't know, Madam,' says the lady,

I am not much used to stage-coaches, I seldom travel in them.

'That may be, Madam,' replied Slip|slop,

very good people do, and some people's betters, for aught I know.

Miss Grave-airs said,

some folks might sometimes give their tongues a liberty, to some people that were their betters, which did not become them; for her part, she was not used to converse with servants.

Slipslop returned,

Some people kept no servants to con|verse with; for her part, she thanked heaven she lived in a family where there were great many; and had more under her own command, than any paltry little gentlewoman in the kingdom.

Miss Grave-airs cried,

she believed her mistress would not encourage such sauciness to her betters.

'My betters,' says Slipslop,

who is my betters, pray?

'I am your betters,' answered Miss Grave-airs, 'and I'll acquaint your mistress.'—At which Mrs. Slipslop laughed aloud, and told

her,

her lady was one of the great gentry, and such little paltry gentlewomen, as some folks who travelled in stage-coaches, would not easily come at her.

This smart dialogue between some people and some folks, was going on at the coach door, when a solemn person riding into the inn, and seeing Miss Grave-airs, immediately accosted her with,

Dear child, how do you do? She presently an|swered, O! papa, I am glad you have overtaken me.

'So am I,' answered he:

for one of our coaches is just at hand: and there being room for you in it, you shall go no farther in the stage, un|less you desire it.

How can you imagine I should desire it?

says she; so bidding Slipslop ride with her fellow, if she pleased, she took her father by the hand, who was just alighted, and walked with him into a room.

Adams instantly asked the coachman in a whis|per; if he knew who the gentleman was? The coachman answered, he was now a gentleman, and kept his horse and man: but times are altered master, said he; I remember when he was no better born than myself. Ay! ay! says Adams. My father drove the squire's coach, answered he, when that very man rode postilion: but he is now his steward, and a great gentleman. Adams then snapped his fingers, and cried, he thought she was some such trollop.

Adams made haste to acquaint Mrs Slipslop with this good news, as he imagined it; but it found a reception different from what he expected. The prudent gentlewoman who despised the anger of Miss Grave-airs, whilst she conceived her the daughter of a gentleman of small fortune, now she heard her alliance with the upper servants of a great

family in her neighbourhood, began to fear her in|terest with the mistress. She wished she had not carried the dispute so far, and began to think of en|deavouring to reconcile herself to the young lady be|fore she left the inn; when luckily the scene at London, which the reader can scarce have forgot|ten, presented itself to her mind, and comforted her with such assurance, that she no longer apprehended any enemy with her mistress.

Every thing being now adjusted, the company entered the coach which was just on its departure, when one lady recollected she had left her fan, a se|cond her gloves, a third a snuff-box, and a fourth a smelling bottle behind her; to find all which occa|sioned some delay, and much swearing, to the coachman.

As soon as the coach had left the inn, the women all together fell to the character of Miss Grave-airs, whom one of them declared she had suspected to be some low creature from the beginning of their jour|ney; and another affirmed, she had not even the looks of a gentlewoman; a third warranted she was no better than she should be; and turning to the la|dy who had related the story in the coach, said,

Did you ever hear, Madam, any thing so prudish as her remarks? Well, deliver me from the cen|soriousness of such a prude.

The fourth added,

O Madam! all these creatures are censorious: but for my part, I wonder where the wretch was bred; indeed I must own I have seldom conversed with these mean kind of people: so that it may appear stranger to me; but to refuse the general desire of a whole company had something in it so astonish|ing, that for my part, I own I should hardly be|lieve it, if my own ears had not been witnesses to it.

'Yes, and so handsome a young fellow,

cries Slipslop:

the woman must have no compul|sion in her, I believe she is more of a Turk than a Christian; I am certain, if she had any Christian woman's blood in her veins, the sight of such a young fellow must have warm'd it. Indeed there are some wretched miserable old objects, that turn one's stomach; I should not wonder if she had re|fused such a one; I am as nice as herself, and should have cared no more than herself for the company of stinking old fellows: but, hold up thy head, Joseph, thou art none of those; and she who hath no compulsion for thee is a Myhummetman, and I will maintain it

. This conversation made Joseph uneasy, as well as the ladies; who, perceiv|ing the spirits Mrs. Slipslop was in, (for indeed she was not a cup too low) began to fear the conse|quence; one of them therefore desired the lady to conclude the story—'Aye, Madam,' said Slipslop,

I beg your ladyship to give us that story you com|mensated in the morning;

which request that well-bred woman immediately complied with.

CHAP. VI.

Conclusion of the unfortunate jilt.

LEONORA having once broke through the bounds which custom and modesty impose on her sex, soon gave an unbridled indulgence to her passion. Her visits to Bellarmine were more con|stant, as well as longer, than his surgeon's; in a word, she became absolutely his nurse, made his water-gruel, administered him his medicines, and, notwithstanding the prudent advice of her aunt to the contrary, almost entirely resided in her wound|ed lover's apartment.

The ladies of the town began to take her conduct

under consideration; it was the chief topic of dis|course at their tea-tables, and was very severely cen|sured by the most part; especially by Lindamira, a lady whose discreet and starch carriage, together with a constant attendance at church three times a day, had utterly defeated many malicious attacks on her own reputation: for such was the envy that Lin|damira's virtue had attracted, that, notwithstanding her own strict behaviour and strict enquiry into the lives of others she had not been able to escape being the mark of some arrows herself, which however did her no injury; a blessing perhaps owned by her to the clergy, who were her chief male companions, and with two or three of whom she had been bar|barously and unjustly calumniated.

Not so unjustly neither perhaps, says Slipslop, for the clergy are men, as well as other folks.

The extreme delicacy of Lindamira's virtue was cruelly hurt by those freedoms which Leonor•• allowed herself: she said it was an affront to her sex;

that she did not imagine it consistent with any woman's honour to speak to the creature, or to be seen in her company; and that, for her part; she should always refuse to dance at an assembly with her, for fear of contamination by taking her by the hand.

But to return to my story: as soon as Bellar|mine was recovered, which was somewhat with|in a month from his receiving the wound, he set out, according to agreement, for Leonora's father's, in order to propose the match, and settle all mat|ters with him touching settlements, and the like.

A little before his arrival, the old gentleman had received an intimation of the affair by the fol|lowing letter; which I can repeat verbatim, and which, they say, was written neither by Leonora

nor her aunt, tho' it was in a woman's hand. The letter was in these words:

SIR,

I am sorry to acquaint you, that your daugh|ter Leonora hath acted one of the basest, as well as most simple parts with a young gentleman to whom she had engaged herself, and whom she hath, (pardon the word) jilted, for another of inferior fortune, notwithstanding his superior figure. You may take what measures you please on this occasion; I have performed what I thought my duty; as I have, though unknown to you, a very great respect for your family.

The old gentleman did not give himself the trou|ble to answer this kind epistle; nor did he take any notice of it after he had read it, 'till he saw Bellarmine. He was, to say the truth, one of those fathers who look on children as an unhappy con|sequence of their youthful pleasures; which as ••e would have been delighted not to have had at|tended them, so was he no less pleased with an op|portunity to rid himself of the incumbrance. He passed, in the world's language, as an exceeding good father, being not only so rapacious as to rob and plunder all mankind to the utmost of his pow|er, but even to deny himself the conveniences and almost necessaries of life; which his neighbours attributed to a desire of raising immense fortunes for his children: but in fact it was not so: he heaped up money for its own sake only, and look|ed on his children as his rivals, who were to en|joy his beloved mistress, when he was incapable of possessing her, and which he would have been much more charmed with the power of carrying

along with him: nor had his children any other security of being his heirs, than that the law would constitute them such without a will, and that he had not affection enough for any one living to take the trouble of writing one.

To this gentleman came Bellarmine on the er|rand I have mentioned. His person, his equigage, his family, and his estate, seemed to the father to make him an advantageous match for his daugh|ter; he therefore very readily accepted his propo|sals: but when Bellarmine imagined the princi|pal affair concluded, and began to open the acci|dental matters of fortune; the old gentleman pre|sently changed his countenance, saying, he resolv|ed never

to marry his daughter on a Smithfield match; that whoever had love for her to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 her, would, when he died, find her share of his fortune in his coffers: but he had seen such ex|amples of undutifulness happen from the too early generosity of parents, that he had made a vow never to part with a shilling whilst he lived. He commended the saying of Solomon, He that sparest the rod, spoileth the child: but added he might likewise asserted, that he that sparest the purse saveth ••he child.

He then ran into a dis|course on the extravagance of the youth of the age; whence he launched into a dissertation on horses, and came at length to commend those Bellarmine drove. That fine gentleman, who, at another season would have been well enough pleased to dwell a little on that subject, was now very eager to resume the circumstance of fortune. He said, he had a very

high value for the young lady, and would receive her with less than he would any other whatever; but that even his love to her made some regard to worldly matters necessary;

for it would be a most distracting sight for him to see her, when he had the honour to be her hus|band, in less than a coach and six.

The old gentleman answered.

Four will do, four will do;

and then took a turn from horses to extra|vagance, and from extravagance to horses, till he came round to the equipage again, whither he was no sooner arrived, than Bellarmine brought him back to the point; but all to no purpose; he made his escape from that subject in a minute; till at last the lover declared, that

in the present situati|on of his affairs it was impossible for him, though he loved Leonora more than tout le monde, to marry her without any fortune.

To which the father answered,

he was sorry then his daughter must lose so valuable a match; that if he had an inclination at present, it was not in his power to advance a shilling; that he had had great losses, and been at great expences on projects; which, though he had great expectation from them, had yet produced him nothing: that he did not know what might happen hereafter, as on the birth of a son, or such accident; but he would make no promise, or enter into any article: for he would not break his vow for all the daugh|ters in the world.

In short, ladies, to keep you no longer in sus|pence, Bellarmine having tried every argument and persuasion which he could invent, and finding them all ineffectual, at length took his leave, but not in order to return to Leonora; he proceeded directly to his own seat, whence, after a few days stay, he returned to Paris, to the great delight of the French, and the honour of the English nation.

But as soon as he arrived at his home, he present|ly

dispatched a messenger with the following epistle to Leonora.

Adorable and Charmante,

I AM sorry to have the honour to tell you I am not the heureux person destined for your di|vine arms. Your papa hath told me so with a politesse not often seen on this side Paris. You may perhaps guess his manner of refusing me—Ah mon dieu! You will certainly believe me, Ma|dam, incapable myself of delivering th••s triste message, which I intend to try the French air to cure the consequences of—A jamais! Coeur! Ange!—Au diable!—If your papa obliges you to a marriage, I hope we shall see you at Paris, till when the wind that blows from thence, will be the warmest dans le monde! for it will consist almost entirely of my sighs. Adieu, ma princesse! Ah l'amour!

BELLARMINE.

I shall not, attempt, ladies, to describe Leonora's condition, when she received this letter. It is a picture of horror which I should have had as little pleasure in drawing, as you in beholding. She im|mediately left the place, where she was the subject of conversation and ridicule, and retired to that house I shewed you when I began the story; where she hath ever since led a disconsolate life, and de|serves perhaps pity for her misfortunes, more than our censure for a behaviour to which the artifices of her aunt very probably contributed, and to which very young women are often rendered too liable by that blameable levity in the education of our sex.

If I was inclined to pity her, said a young lady in the coach, it would be for the loss of Horatio; for

I cannot discern any misfortune in her missing such a husband as Bellarmine.

Why, I must own, says Slipslop, the gentleman was a little false-hearted: but how sumever it was hard to have two lovers, and get never a husband at all—But pray Madam what became of Our-a••ho?

He remains, said the lady, still unmarried, and hath applied himself so strictly to his business, that he hath raised. I hear, a very considerable fortune. And what is remarkable, they say he never hears the name of Leonora without a sigh, nor hath ever ut|tered one syllable to charge her with her ill conduct towards him.

CHAP. VII.

A very short chapter, in which parson Adams 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a great way.

THE lady having finished her story, received the thanks of the company; and now Joseph, putting his head out of the coach, cried out,

Ne|ver believe me, if yonder be not our parson Adams walking along without his horse.

On my word, and so he is,

says Slipslop;

and as sure as two pence he hath left him behind at the inn.

Indeed, true it is, the parson had exhibited a fresh instance of his absence of mind: for he was so pleased with having got Joseph into the coach, that he never once thought of the beast in the stable; and finding his legs as nimble as he desired, he sallied out brandish|ing a crabstick, and had kept on before the coach, mending and slackening his pace occasionally, so that he had never been much more or less than a quarter of a mile distant from it.

Mrs. Slipslop desired the coachman to overtake him, which he attempted, but in vain: for the faste••

he drove, the faster ran the parson, often crying out Aye, aye, catch me if you can: till at length the coachman swore he would as soon attempt to drive after a grey-hound; and giving the parson two or three hearty curses, he cry'd, softly boys, to his horses, which the civil beasts immediately obeyed.

But we will be more courteous to our reader than he was to Mrs. Slipslop; and leaving the coach and its company to pursue their journey, we will carry our reader on after parson Adams, who stretched forwards without once looking behind him; till having left the coach full three miles in his rear, he came to a place, where by keeping the extreamest tract to the right, it was just barely possible for a human creature to miss his way. This track how|ever did he keep, as indeed he had a wonderful ca|pacity at these kind of bare possibilities; and travel|ling in it about three miles over the plain, he arriv|•••••• at the summit of a hill, whence, looking a great way backwards, and perceiving no coach in sight he sat himself down on the turf, and pulling out his AEschylus, ▪determined to wait there for its arrival.

He had not sat long here, before a gun going off very near a little startled him; he looked up and saw a gentleman within a hundred paces taking up a partridge, which he had just shot.

Adams stood up, and presented a figure to the gentleman which would have moved laughter i•• many: for his cassock had just again fallen down below his great coat, that is to say, it reached his knees; whereas the skirts of his coat descended no lower then half way down his thighs: but the gen|tleman's mirth gave way to his surprize, at behold|ing such a personage in such a place.

Adams advancing to the gentleman, told him he hoped he had good sport; to which the other an|swered

very little. 'I see, Sir,' says Adams,

you have smote one partridge:

to which the sports|man made no reply, but proceeded to charge his piece.

Whilst the gun was charging, Adams remained in silence, which he at last broke, by observing, that it was a delightful evening. The gentleman, who had at first sight conceived a very distasteful opinion of the parson, began, on perceiving a book in his hand, and smoaking likewise the information of the cassock, to change his thoughts, and make a small advance to conversation on his side, by saying▪ Sir, I suppose you are not one of these parts?

Adams immediately told him, no: that he was a traveller, and invited by the beauty of the evening and the place to repose a little, and amuse himself with reading. 'I may as well repose myself too,' said the sportsman;

for I have been out this whole afternoon, and the devil a bird have I seen till I came hither.

Perhaps then the game is not very plenty here|abouts,

cries Adams. 'No, Sir,' said the gen|tleman;

the soldiers, who are quartered in the neighbourhood, have killed it all.

It is very probable,

cries Adams,

for shooting is their profession.

'Ay, shooting th•• game,' answered the other,

but I don't see they are so forward to shoot our enemies. I don't like that affair of Carthagena; if I had been there, I believe I should have done otherguess things, d—n me; what's a man's life when his country demands it? a man who won't sacrifice his life for his country, deserves to be hang'd, d—n me.

Which words he spoke with so violent a gesture, so loud a voice, so strong an accent, and so fierce a countenance, that he might have frighten'd a

captain of trained bands at the head of his compa|ny; but Mr. Adams was not greatly subject to fears: he told him intrepidly, that he very much approved his virtue, but disliked his swearing, and begged him not to addict himself to so bad a cus|tom, without which he said he might fight as bravely as Achilles did. Indeed he was charmed with this discourse; he told the gentleman he would willingly have gone many miles to have met a man of his generous way of thinking; that if he pleased to sit down, he should be greatly de|lighted to commune with him: for tho' he was a clergyman, he would himself be ready, if there|to called, to lay down his life for his country.

The gentleman sat down, and Adams by him; and then the latter began, as in the following chapter, a discourse which we have placed by it|self, as it is not only the most curious in this, but perhaps in any other book.

CHAP. VIII.

A notable dissertation by Mr. Abraham Adams; wherein that gentleman appears in a political light.

I DO assure you, Sir, says he, taking the gen|tleman by the hand, I am heartily glad to meet with a man of your kidney: for tho' I am a poor parson, I will be bold to say, I am an ho|nest man, and would not do an ill thing to be made a bishop: nay, tho' it hath not fallen in my way to offer so noble a sacrifice, I have not been without opportunities of suffering for the sake of my conscience, I thank heaven for them; for I have had relations, tho' I say it, who made some figure in the world; particularly a nephew,

who was a shop-keeper, and an alderman of a corporation. He was a good lad, and was under my care when a boy, and I believe would do what I bade him to his dying day. Indeed, it looks like extreme vanity in me, to affect being a man of such consequence, as to have so great an inter|est in an alderman; but others have thought so too, as manifestly appeared by the rector, whose curate I formerly was, sending for me on the ap|proach of an election, and telling me, If I ex|pected to continue in his cure, that I must bring my nephew to vote for one colonel Courtley, a gentleman whom I had never heard tidings of till that instant. I told the rector, I had no power over my nephew's vote, (God forgive me for such prevarication!) that I supposed he would give it according to his conscience; that I would by no means endeavour to influence him to give it otherwise. He told me, it was in vain to equivocate, that he knew I had already spoke to him in favour of esquire Fickle my neighbour; and indeed it was true I had: for it was at a season when the church was in danger, and when all good men expected they knew not what would happen to us all. I then answered bold|ly, If he thought I had given my promise, he af|fronted me, in proposing any breach of it. Not to be too prolix: I persevered, and so did my ne|phew, in the esquire's interest, who was chose chiefly through his means; and so I lost my cu|racy. Well, Sir, but do you think the esquire ever mentioned a word of the church? Ne verbum quidem, ut ita dicam: within two years he got a place, and hath ever since lived in London; where I have been informed, (but God forbid I should believe that) that he never so much as go|eth

to church. I remained Sir, a considerable time without any cure, and lived a full month on one funeral sermon, which I preached on the in|disposition of a clergyman: but this by the bye. At last, when Mr. Fickle got his place, colonel Courtley stood again; and who should make in|terest for him, but Mr. Fickle himself? that ve|ry identical Mr. Fickle, who had formerly told me, the colonel was an enemy both to the church and state, had the confidence to sollicit my ne|phew for him; and the colonel himself offered me to make me chaplain to his regiment, which I refused in favour of Sir Oliver Hearty, who told us he would sacrifice every thing to his coun|try; and I believe he would, except his hunting, which he stuck so close to, that in five years toge|ther, he went but twice up to parliament; and one of those times, I have been told, never was within sight of the house. However, he was a worthy man, and the best friend I ever had: for by his interest with a bishop, he got me replaced into my curacy, and gave me eight pounds out of his own pocket to buy me a gown and cassock, and furnish my house. He had our interest while he lived, which was not many years. On his death I had fresh applications made to me; for all the world knew the interest I had with my good nephew, who now was a leading man in the corporation; and Sir Thomas Booby buying ••he estate which had been Sir Oliver's, proposed himself a candidate. He was then a young gen|tleman just come from his travels; and it did me good to hear him discourse on affairs, which, for my part, I knew nothing of. If I had been mas|ter of a thousand votes, he should have had them all. I engaged my nephew in his interest; and

he was elected, and a very fine parliament-man he was. They tell me he made speeches of an hour long; and I have been told very fine ones: but he could never persuade the parliament to be of his opinion.—Non omnia possumus omnes. He promised me a living, poor man; and I believe I should have had it, but an accident happened; which was, that my lady had promised it before, unknown to him. This indeed I never heard till afterwards: for my nephew, who died about a month before the incumbent, always told me I might be assured of it. Since that time, Sir Thomas, poor man, had always so much busi|ness, that he never could find leisure to see me. I believe it was partly my lady's fault too; who did not think my dress good enough for the gen|try at her table. However, I must do him the justice to say, he never was ungrateful; and I have always found his kitchen, and his cellar too, open to me; many a time after service on a Sun|day, for I preach at four churches, have I recruit|ed my spirits with a glass of his ale. Since my nephew's death, the corporation is in other hands; and I am not a man of that consequence I was formerly. I have now no longer any talents to lay out in the service of my country; and to whom nothing is given, of him can nothing be required. However, on all proper seasons, such as the ap|proach of an election, I throw a suitable dash or two into my sermons; which I have the pleasure to hear is not disagreeable to Sir Thomas, and the other honest gentlemen my neighbours, who have all promised me these five years, to procure an ordination for a son of mine, who is now near thirty, hath an infinite stock of learning, and is, I thank heaven, of an unexceptionable life; tho',

as he was never at an university, the bishop refu|ses to ordain him. Too much care cannot in|deed be taken in admitting any to the sacred of|fice; tho' I hope he will never act so as to be a disgrace to any order: but will serve his God and his country to the utmost of his power, as I have endeavoured to do before him; nay, will lay down his life whenever called to that purpose. I am sure I have educated him in those princi|ples; so that I have acquitted my duty, and shall have nothing to answer for on that account: but I do not distrust him; for he is a good boy; and, if Providence should throw it in his way to be of as much consequence in a public light, as his fa|ther once was; I can answer for him, he will use his talents as honestly as I have done.

CHAP. IX.

In which the gentleman descants on bravery and heroic virtue, till an unlucky accident puts an end to the discourse.

THE gentleman highly commended Mr. Adams for his good resolutions, and told him,

he hoped his son would tread in his steps;

adding,

that if he would not die for his country, he would not be worthy to live in it. I'd make no more of shooting a man that would not die for his country, than—

'Sir,' said he,

I have disinherited a nephew who is in the army; because he would not ex|change his commission, and go to the West-In|dies. I believe the rascal is a coward, though he pretends to be in love forsooth. I would have all such fellows hanged, Sir; I would have them

hanged.

Adams answered,

that would be too severe: that men did not make themselves; and if fear had too much ascendance in the mind, the man was rather to be pitied than abhorred: that reason and time might teach him to subdue it.

He said,

a man might be a coward at one time, and brave at another. Homer,

says he,

who so well understood and copied nature, hath taught us this lesson, for Paris fights, and Hector runs away: nay, we have a mighty instance of this in the history of later ages, no longer ago than the 705th year of Rome, when the great Pompey, who had won so many battles, and been honoured with so many triumphs, and of whose valour several au|thors, especially Cicero and Paterculus, have form|ed such elogiums; this very Pompey left the bat|tle of Pharsalia before he had lost it, and retreated to his tent, where he sat like the most pusillani|mous rascal in a ••it of despair, and yielded a victo|ry, which was to determine the empire of the world, to Caesar. I am not much travelled in the history of modern times, that is to say, these last thousand years: but those who are can, I make no question, furnish you with parallel instances.

He concluded therefore, that had he taken any such hasty resolutions against his nephew, he hoped he would consider better, and retract them. The gen|tleman answered with great warmth, and talked much of courage and his country, till perceiving it grew late, he asked Adams,

what place he intend|ed for that night?

He told him,

he waited there for the stage-coach.

'The stage-coach! Sir,' said the gentleman,

they are all past by long ago. You may see the last yourself almost three miles before us.

'I protest and so they are,' cries A|dams, 'then I must make haste and follow them.'

The gentleman told him,

he would hardly be able to overtake them; and that if he did not know his way, he would be in danger of losing himself on the downs; for it would be presently dark; and he might ramble about all night, and perhaps, find himself farther from his journey's end in the mor|ning than he was now. He advised him therefore to accompany him to his house, which was very little out of his way, assuring him, that he would find some country fellow in his parish, who would conduct him for six pence to the city where he was going.

Adams accepted this proposal, and on they travelled, the gentleman renewing his dis|course on courage, and the infamy of not being rea|dy at all times to sacrifice our lives to our country. Night overtook them much about the same time as they arrived near some bushes: whence, on a sud|den, they heard the most violent shrieks imaginable in a female voice. Adams offered to snatch the gun out of his companion's hand.

What are you do|ing?

said he. 'Doing!' says Adams,

I am hastening to the assistance of the poor creature whom some villains are murdering.

You are not mad enough, I hope,

says the gentleman trembling:

Do you consider this gun is only charged with shot, and that the robbers are most probably furnished with pistols loaded with bul|lets? This is no business of ours; let us make as much haste as possible out of the way, or we may fall into their hands ourselves.

The shrieks now increasing, Adams made no answer, but snapt his fingers, and brandishing his crabstick, made direct|ly to the place whence the voice issued; and the man of courage made as much expedition towards his own home, whither he escaped in a very short time without once looking behind him: where we will

leave him to contemplate his own bravery, and to censure the want of it in others: and return to the good Adams, who on coming up to the place whence the noise proceeded, found a woman strug|gling with a man, who had thrown her on the ground, and had almost overpowered her. The great abilities of Mr. Adams were not necessary to have formed a right judgment of this affair on the first sight. He did not therefore want the entrea|ties of the poor wretch to assist her; but lifting up his crabstick, he immediately levelled a blow at that part of the ravisher's head, where, according to the opinion of the ancients, the brains of some persons are deposited, and which he had undoubtedly let forth, had not nature, (who, as wise men have ob|served, equips all creatures with what is most expe|dient for them) taken a provident care, (as she al|ways doth with those she intends for encounters) to make this part of the head three times as thick as those of ordinary men, who are designed to exer|cise talents which are vulgarly called rational and for whom, as brains are necessary, she is obliged to leave some room for them in the cavity of the skull: whereas, those ingredients being entirely useless to persons of the heroic calling, she hath an opportu|nity of thickening the bone, so as to make it less subject to any impression, or liable to be cracked or broken; and indeed, in some who are predestined to the command of armies and empires, she is supposed sometimes to make that part perfectly solid.

As a game-cock, when engaged in amorous toy|ing with a hen, if perchance he espies another cock at hand, immediately quits his female, and opposes himself to his rival: so did the ravisher, on the in|formation of the crabstick, immediately leap from the woman, and hastened to assail the man. He had

no weapons but what nature had furnished him with. However, he clenched his fist, and presently darted it at that part of Adams's breast where the heart is lodged. Adams staggered at the violence of the blow, when, throwing away his staff, he like|wise clenched that fist which we have before com|memorated, and would have discharged it full in the breast of his antagonist, had he not dexterously caught it with his left hand, at the same time dart|ing his head, (which some modern heroes of the lower class use, like the battering-ram of the anti|ents, for a weapon of offence; another reason to ad|mire the cunningness of nature, in composing it of those impenetrable materials) dashing his head, I say into the stomach of Adams, he tumbled him on his back, and not having any regard to the laws of heroism, which would have restrained him from any farther attack on his enemy 'till he was again on his legs, he threw himself upon him, and laying hold on the ground with his left hand, he with his right belaboured the body of Adams 'till he was weary, and indeed, 'till he concluded (to use the language of fighting) 'that he had done his business;' or in the language of poetry,

that he had sent him to the shades below; in plain English, 'that he was dead.

But Adams, who was no chicken, and could bear a drubbing as well as any boxing champion in the universe, lay still only to watch his opportunity; and now perceiving his antagonist to pant with his labours, he exerted his utmost force at once, and with such success, that he overturned him, and be|came his superior; when fixing one of his knees in his breast, he cried out in an exulting voice,

It is my turn now:

and after a few minutes con|stant application, he gave him so dexterous a blow

just under his chin, that the fellow no longer retain|ed any motion, and Adams began to fear he had struck him once too often; for he often asserted,

he should be concerned to have the blood of even the wicked upon him.

Adams got up, and called aloud to the young woman—

Be of good cheer, damsel, said he, you are no longer in danger of your ravisher, who, I am terribly afraid, lies dead at my feet; but God forgive me what I have done in defence of inno|cence.

The poor wretch, who had been some time in recovering strength enough to rise, and had afterwards, during the engagement, stood trembling, being disabled by fear, even from run|ning away, hearing her champion was victorious, came up to him, but not without apprehension, even of her deliverer; which, however, she was soon relieved from, by his courteous behaviour and gentle words. They were both standing by the body, which lay motionless on the ground, and which Adams wished to see stir much more than the woman did, when he earnestly begged her to tell him,

by what misfortune she came, at such a time of night, into so lonely a place?

She ac|quainted him,

she was travelling towards Lon|don, and had accidentally met with the person from whom he had delivered her, who told her he was likewise on his journey to the same place and would keep her company: an offer which, suspecting no harm, she had accepted; that he told her, they were at a small distance from an inn where she might take up her lodging that evening, and he would shew her a nearer way to it than by following the road. That if she had suspected him, (which she did not, he spoke so kindly to her,) being alone on these downs in

the dark, she had no human means to avoid him; that therefore she put her whole trust in Provi|dence, and walk'd on, expecting every moment to arrive at the inn; when, on a sudden, being come to those bushes, he desired her to stop, and after some rude kisses, which she resisted, and some entreaties, which she rejected, he laid vio|lent hands on her, and was attempting to execute his wicked will, when, she thanked G—, he timely came up and prevented him.

Adams encouraged her for saying she had put her whole trust in Providence, and told her,

he doubted not but Providence had sent him to her deliverance, as a reward for that trust. He wished indeed, he had not deprived the wicked wretch of life, but G—'s will be done; he said, he hoped the goodness of his intention would excuse him in the next world, and he trusted in her evidence to acquit him in this.

He was then silent, and began to consider with himself, whether it would be properer to make his escape or to deliver him|self into the hands of justice; which meditation ended, as the reader will see in the next chapter.

CHAP. X.

Giving an account of the strange catastrophe of the pre|ceding adventure, which drew poor Adams into fresh calamities; and who the woman was who owed the preservation of her chastity to his victori|ous arm.

THE silence of Adams, added to the darkness of the night and loneliness of the place, struck dreadful apprehensions into the poor wo|man's mind: She began to fear as great an enemy

in her deliverer, as he had delivered her from; and as she had not light enough to discover the age of Adams, and the benevolence visible in his counte|nance, she suspected he had used her as some very honest men have used their country; and had re|scued her out of the hands of one ri••••er, in order to rifle her himself. Such were the suspicions she drew from his silence: but indeed, they were ill|grounded. He stood over his vanquished enemy, wisely weighing in his mind the objections which might be made to either of the two methods of proceeding mentioned in the last chapter, his judg|ment sometimes inclining to the one, and sometimes to the other; for both seemed to him so equally adviseable, and so equally dangerous, that probably he would have ended his days, at least two or three of them, on that very spot, before he had taken any resolution: At length he lifted up his eyes, and spi|ed a light at a distance, to which he instantly ad|dressed himself with Heus tu, Traveller, hues tu! He presently heard several voices, and perceived the light approaching toward him. The persons who attended the light began some to laugh, others to sing, and others to halloo, at which the woman testified some fear, (for she had concealed her sus|picions of the parson himself,) but Adams said,

Be of good cheer, damsel, and repose thy trust in the same Providence which hath hitherto pro|tected thee, and never will forsake the innocent.

These people who now approached were no other, reader, than a set of young fellows, who came to these bushes in pursuit of a diversion which they call Bird-batting. This, if thou art ignorant of it (as perhaps if thou hast never travelled beyond Ken|sington, Islington, Hackney, or the Borough, thou may'st be) I will inform thee, is performed by

holding a large clap-net before a lanthorn, and at the same time beating the bushes; for the birds, when they are disturbed from their places of rest, or roost, immediately make to the light, and so are in|ticed within the net. Adams immediately told them what happened, and desired them

to hold the lanthorn to the face of the man on the ground, for he feared he had smote him fatally.

But, in|deed his fears were frivolous; for the f••llow, tho' he had been stunned by the last blow he received, had long since recovered his senses, and finding him|self quit of Adams, had listened attentively to the discourse between him and the young woman; for whose departure he had patiently waited, that he might likewise withdraw himself, having no longer hopes of succeeding in his desires, which were moreover almost as well cooled by Mr. Adams, as they could have been by the young woman herself, had he obtained his utmost wish.

This fellow, who had a readiness at improving any 〈◊〉〈◊〉, thought he might now play a better part than that of a dead man; and accordingly the moment the candle was held to his face, he leapt up, and laying hold on Adams, cried out,

No, vil|lain, I am not dead, though you and your wicked whore might well think me so, after the barbarous cruelties you have exercised on me.

Gentlemen, said he,

you are luckily come to the assistance of a poor traveller, who would otherwise have been robbed and murdered by this vile man and woman, who led me hither out of my way from the high|road, and both falling on me have used me as you see.

Adams was going to answer, when one of the young fellows cry'd,

d—n them, let's carry them both before the justice.

The poor woman began to tremble, and Adams lifted up his voice,

but in vain. Three or four of them laid hands on him, and one holding the lanthorn to his face, they all agreed,

he had the most villainous countenance they ever beheld;

and an attorney's clerk who was one of the company declared,

he was sure he had remembered him at the bar.

As to the wo|man, her hair was dishevelled in the struggle: and her nose had bled, so that they could not perceive whether she was handsome or ugly, but they said her fright plainly discovered her guilt. And search|ing her pockets, as they did those of Adams, for mo|ney, which the fellow said he had lost, they found in her pocket a purse with some gold in it, which abundantly convinced them, especially as the fellow offered to swear to it. Mr. Adams was found to have no more than one halfpenny about him. This the clerk said, 'was a great piece of presumption that he was an ••ld offender, by cunningly giving all the booty to the woman.' To which all the rest readily assented.

This accident promising them better sport than what they had proposed, they quitted their intention of catching birds, and unanimously resolved to pro|ceed to the justice with the offenders. Being in|formed what a desperate fellow Adams was, they tied his hands behind him; and having hid their nets among the bushes, and the lanthorn being car|ried before them, they placed the two prisoners in their front, and then began their march: Adams not only submitting patiently to his own fate, but comforting and encouraging his companion under her sufferings.

Whilst they were on their way, the clerk in|formed the rest, that this adventure would prove, a very beneficial one: for that they would be all en|titled to their proportions of 801. for apprehending

the robbers. This occasioned a contention con|cerning the parts which they had severally borne in taking them; one insisting, he ought to have the greatest share; for he had first laid his hands on Adams; another claiming a superior part, for hav|ing first held the lanthorn to the man's face on the ground, by which, he said,

the whole was disco|ver'd.

The clerk claimed four fifths of the re|ward, for having proposed to search the prisoners; and likewise the carrying them before the justice▪ he said indeed,

in strict justice, he ought to have the whole.

These claims, however, they at last consented to refer to a future decision, but seem'd all to agree that the clerk was entitled to a moiety. They then debated what money should be allotted to the young fellow, who had been employed only in holding the nets. He very modestly said.

That he did not apprehend any large proportion would fall to his charge; but hoped they would allow him something: he desired them to consi|der, that they had assigned their nets to his care, which prevented him from being as forward as any in laying hold of the robbers, (for so these in|nocent people were called;) that if he had not occupied the nets, some other must: concluding however, that he should be contented with the smallest share imaginable, and should think that rather their bounty than his merit.

But they were all unanimous in excluding him from any part whatever, the clerk particularly swearing,

if they gave him a shilling, they might do what they pleased with the rest; for he would not con|cern himself with the affair.

This contention was so hot, and so totally engaged the attention of all the parties, that a dextrous nimble thief, had he been in Mr. Adams's situation, would have ta|ken

care to have given the justice no trouble that evening. Indeed, it required not the art of a Shep|herd to escape, especially as the darkness of the night would have so much befriended him: but Adams trusted rather to his innocence than his heels, and without thinking of flight, which was easy, or resistance (which was impossible, as there were six lusty young fellows, besides the villain himself, present) he walked with perfect resignati|on the way they thought proper to conduct him.

Adams frequently vented himself in ejaculations during their journey; at last poor Joseph Andrews occurring to his mind, he could not refrain sighing forth his name, which being heard by his compa|nion in affliction, she cried, with some vehemence,

Sure I should know that voice; you cannot cer|tainly, Sir, be Abraham Adams?

Indeed, dam|sel,

says he,

that is my name; there is some|thing also in your voice, which persuades me I have heard it before.

La, Sir, says she, don't you remember poor Fanny?

'How, Fanny!' answered Adams,

indeed I very well remember you; what can have brought you hither?

I have told you, Sir,

replied she,

I was travelling towards London; but I thought you mentioned Joseph Andrews, pray what is become of him?

'I left him, Child, this afternoon,' said Adams,

in the stage-coach, in his way towards our pa|rish, whither he is going to see you.

To see me! La, Sir,

answered Fanny,

sure you jeer me; what should he be going to see me for?

'Can you ask that?' replied Adams.

I hope Fanny you are not inconstant; I assure you he deserves much better of you.

La! 'Mr. A|dams,' said she,

what is Mr. Joseph to me? I am sure I never had any thing to say to him, but

as one fellow-servant might to another.

I am sorry to hear this,

said Adams;

a virtuous pas|sion for a young man, is what no woman need be ashamed of. You either do not tell me truth, or you are false to a very worthy man.

Adams then told her what had happened at the inn, to which she listened very attentively; and a sigh often escap|ed from her, notwithstanding her utmost endea|vours to the contrary, nor could she prevent her|self from asking a thousand questions, which would have assured any one but Adams, who never ••aw farther into people than they desired to let him, of the truth of passion she endeavoured to con|ceal. Indeed, the fact was, that this poor girl hav|ing heard of Joseph's misfortune by some of the servants belonging to the coach, which we have formerly mentioned to have stopt at the inn while the poor youth was confined to his bed, that instant abandoned the cow she was milking, and taking with her a little bundle of clothes under her arm, and all the money she was worth in her own purse, without consulting any one, immediately set for|ward, in pursuit of one, whom, notwithstanding her shyness to the parson, she loved with inexpres|sible violence, though with the purest and most de|licate passion. This shyness therefore, as we trust it will recommend her character to all our female readers, and not greatly surprise such of our males as are well acquainted with the younger part of the other sex, we shall not give ourselves any trou|ble to vindicate.

CHAP. XI.

What happened to them while before the justice. A chapter very full of learning.

THEIR fellow-travellers were so engaged in the hot dispute concerning the division of the re|ward for apprehending these innocent people, that they attended very little to their discourse. They were now arrived at the justice's house, and had sent one of his servants in to acquaint his worship, that they had taken two robbers, and brought them before him. The justice, who was just returned from a fox-chase, and had not yet finished his din|ner, ordered them to carry the prisoners into the sta|ble, whither they were attended by all the servants in the house, and all the people in the neighbour|hood, who flocked together to see them with as much curiosity as if there was something uncom|mon to be seen, or that a rogue did not look like other people.

The justice now being in the height of his mirth and his cups, bethought himself of the prisoners; and telling his company he believed they should have good sport in their examination, he ordered them into his presence. They had no sooner en|tered the room, than he began to revile them, saying,

that robberies on the highway were now grown so frequent, that people could not sleep safely in their beds, and assured them they both should be made examples of at the ensuing assizes.

After he had gone on some time in this manner, he was reminded by his clerk,

that it would be proper to take the deposition of the witnesses against them:

which he bid him do,

and he would light his pipe

in the mean time.

Whilst the clerk was employ|ed in writing down the deposition of the fellow who had pretended to be robbed, the justice employed himself in cracking jests on poor Fanny, in which he was seconded by all the company at table. One asked,

whether she was to be indicted for a high|wayman?

Another whispered in her ear,

if she had not provided herself a great belly, he was at her service.

A third said,

he warranted she was a relation of Turpin.

To which one of the company, a great wit, shaking his head, and then his sides, answered,

he believed she was nearer re|lated to Turpis;

at which there was an univer|sal laugh. They were proceeding thus with this poor girl, when somebody smoaking the cassock peeping from under the coat of Adams, cried out, 'What have we here, a parson?' 'How, sirrah, says the justice,

do you go robbing in the dress of a clergyman? let me tell you, your habit will not entitle you to the benefit of the clergy.

'Yes,' said the witty fellow,

he will have one benefit of clergy, he will be exalted above the heads of the people;

at which there was a second laugh. And now the witty spark, seeing his jokes take, began to rise in spirits; and turning to Adams, challenged him to cap verses, and provoking him by giving the first blow, he repeated,

Molle meum levibus cord est vilebile telis.

Upon which Adams, with a look full of ineffable contempt, told him, he deserved scourging for his pronunciation. The witty fellow answered,

What do you deserve, doctor, for not been able to answer the first time?

Why I'll give you one, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 blockhead—with and▪

Si licet ut fulvum spectatur in ignibus haurum.

What can'st not with an M neither? Thou art a pretty fellow for a parson.—Why did'st not steal some of the parson's Latin as well as his gown? Another at the table then answered,

if he had, you would have been too hard for him; I remember you at the college a very devil at this sport; I have seen you catch a fresh man: for nobody that knew you, would engage with you.

I have forgot those things now,

cried the wit.

I believe I could have done pretty well formerly. —Let's see, what did I end with—an M again—ay—

Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.

'I could have done it once.'—

Ah! Evil betide you, and so you can now,

said the other,

nobody in this country will undertake you.

Adams could hold no longer; 'Friend,' said he,

I have a boy not above eight years old, who would instruct thee, that the verse runs thus:

Ut sunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo virorum.

'I'll hold thee a guinea of that,' said the wit, throw|ing the money on the table.—

And I'll go your halves,

cries the other. 'Done.' answered Adams; but upon applying to his pocket, he was forced to retract, and own he had no money about him; which set them all a laughing, and confirmed the triumph of his adversary, which was not moderate, any more than the approbation he met with from the whole company, who told Adams he must go a little longer to school, before he attempted to attack that 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 Lati••

The clerk having finished the depositions, as well of the fellow himself, as of those who apprehended the prisoners, delivered them to the justice; who having sworn the several witnesses, without reading a syllable, ordered his clerk to make the mittimus.

Adams then said,

he hoped he should not be condemned unheard.

'No, no,' cries the justice,

you will be asked what you have to say for your|self, when you come on your trial: we are not trying you now; I shall only commit you to goal: if you can prove your innocence at Size, you will be found Ignoramus, and so no harm done.

Is it no punishment, Sir, for an innocent man to lie several months in goal?

cries Adams:

I beg you would at least hear me before you sign the mitti|mus.

'What signifies all you can say?' says the justice,

is it not here in black and white against you? I must tell you, you are a very impertinent fellow, to take up so much of my time.—So make haste with his mittimus.

The clerk now acquainted the justice, that a|mong other suspicious things, as a penknife, &c. found in Adams's pocket, they had discovered a book written, as he apprehended, in cyphers: for no one could read a word in it. 'Aye,' says the justice,

the fellow may be more than a common robber, he may be in a plot against the govern|ment—Produce the book.

Upon which the poor manuscript of Aeschylus, which Adams had tran|scribed with his own hand, was brought forth; and the justice looking at it shook his head, and turning to the prisoner asked the meaning of those cyphers. 'Cyphers!' answered Adams,

it is a manuscript of Aeschylus.

'Who? who?' said the justice. Adams repeated, 'Aeschylus.'

That is an out|landish name,

cried the clerk.

A fictitious

name rather, I believe,

said the justice. One of the company declared it looked very much like Greek. 'Greek,' said the justice,

why 'tis all in writing.

'No,' says the other,

I don't positively say it is so: for it is a very long time since I have seen any Greek.

'There's one,' says he, turning to the parson of the parish, who was present,

will tell us immediately.

The parson taking up the book, and putting on his spectacles and gravity to|gether, muttered some words to himself, and then pronounced aloud—

Ay, indeed, it is a Greek ma|nuscript, a very fine piece of antiquity. I make no doubt but it was stolen from the same clergy|man from whom the rogue took the cassock.

'What did the rascal mean by his Aeschylus?' says the justice. 'Pooh!' answered the doctor, with a contemptuous grin,

do you think that fellow knows any thing of this book? Aeschylus! ho! ho! I see now what it is—A manuscript of one of the fathers. I know a nobleman who would give a great deal of money for such a piece of an|tiquity.—Ay, ay, question and answer. The be|ginning is the catechism in Greek.—Ay,—Ay,—Pollaki toi—What's your name?

—

Ay, what's your name?

say the justice to Adams, who an|swered, 'It is Aeschylus, and I will maintain it.'—'O it is,' says the justice,

make Mr. Aeschylus his mittimus. I will teach you to banter me with a false name.

One of the company having looked stedfastly at Adams, asked him,

if he did not know lady Boo|by?

Upon which Adams presently calling him to mind, answered in a rapture,

O squire ar•• you there? I believe you will inform his worship I am innocent.

'I can indeed say,' replied the squire,

that I am very much surprized to see you

in this situation;

and then addressing himself to the justice, he said,

Sir, I assure you, Mr. Adams is a clergyman as he appears, and a gentleman of a very good character. I wish you would enquire a little farther into this affair; for I am convinc|ed of his innocence.

'Nay,' says the justice,

if he is a gentleman, and you are sure he is inno|cent, I don't desire to commit him, not I; I will commit the woman by herself, and take your bail for the gentleman; look into the book, clerk, and see how it is to take bail; come—and make the mittimus for the woman as fast as you can.

'Sir,' cries Adams,

I assure you she is as innocent as myself.

'Perhaps,' said the squire,

there may be some mistake;—pray let us hear Mr. Adams's relation.

With all my heart,

answered the justice,

and give the gentleman a glass to whet his whistle before he begins. I know how to behave myself to gen|tlemen as well as another. No body can say I have committed a gentleman, since I have been in the commission.

Adams then began the nar|rative, in which, though he was very prolix, he was uni••terrupted, unless by several hums and ha's of the justice, and his desire to repeat those parts which seemed to him most material. When he had finished, the justice, who, on what the squire had said, believed every syllable of his story on his bare affirmation, notwithstanding the depositions on oath to the contrary, began to let loose several rogues and rascals against the witness, whom he or|dered to stand forth, but in vain: the said witness, long sin•• finding what turn matters were like to take, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 privily withdrawn, without attending the issue. The justice now flew into a violent pas|sion, and was hardly prevailed with not to commit

the innocent fellows, who had been imposed on as well as himself. He swore,

they had best find out the fellow who was guilty of perjury, and bring him before him within two days, or he would bind them all over to their good behaviour.

They all promised to use their best endeavours to that purpose, and were dismissed. Then the jus|tice insisted, that Mr. Adams should sit down and take a glass with him; and the parson of the pa|rish delivered him back the manuscript without saying a word; nor would Adams, who plainly discerned his ignorance, expose it. As for Fanny, she was, at her own request, recommended to the care of a maid-servant of the house, who helped her to new dress, and clean herself.

The company in the parlour had not been long seated, before they were alarmed with a horrible uproar from without, where the persons who had apprehended Adams and Fanny, had been rega|ling, according to the custom of the house, with the justice's strong beer. These were all fallen to|gether by the ears, and were cuffing each other without any mercy. The justice himself sallied out, and with the dignity of his presence soon put an end to the fray. On his return into the par|lour, he reported

That the occasion of the quarrel was no other than a dispute, to whom, if Adams had been convicted, the greater share of the re|ward for apprehending him had belonged.

All the company laughed at this, except Adams, who, taking his pipe from his mouth, fetched a deep groan, and said, he was concerned to see so litigious a temper in men. That he remembered a story something like it in one of the parishes where his cure lay:

There was, continued he, a competition between three young fellows for the

place of the clerk, which I disposed of to the best of my abilities, according to merit: that is, I gave it to him who had the happiest knack at setting a psalm. The clerk was no sooner esta|blished in his place than a contention began be|tween the two disappointed candidates concern|ing their excellence, each contending, on whom, had they two been the only competitors, my elec|tion would have fallen. This dispute frequent|ly disturbed the congregation, and introduced a discord into the psalmody, till I was forced to si|lence them both. But alas, the litigious spirit could not be stifled; and being no longer able to vent itself in singing, it now broke forth in fight|ing. It produced many battles, (for they were very near a match;) and, I believe, would have ended fatally, had not the death of the clerk given me an opportunity to promote one of them to the place; which presently put an end to the dispute, and entirely reconciled the contending parties.

Adams then proceeded to make some philosophi|cal observations on the folly of growing warm in disputes, in which neither party is interested. He then applied himself vigorously to smoaking; and a long silence ensued, which was at length broke by the justice; who began to sing forth his own praises, and to value himself exceedingly on his nice discernment in the cause which had late|ly been before him. He was quickly interrupted by Mr. Adams, between whom and his worship a dispute now arose, whether he ought not, in strictness of law, to have committed him, the said Adams; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 which the latter maintained he ought to have been committed, and the justice as vehemently held be ought not. This had most probably produced a quarrel, (for both were very

violent and positive in their opinions) had not Fan|ny accidentally heard, that a young fellow was going from the justice's house to the very inn where the stage-coach, in which Joseph was, put up. Upon this news, she immediately sent for the par|son out of the parlour. Adams, when he found her resolute to go, (though she would not own the reason, but pretended she could not bear to see the faces of those who had suspected her of such a crime) was as fully determined to go with her; he accordingly took leave of the justice and com|pany, and so ended a dispute in which the law seemed shamefully to intend to set a magistrate and a divine together by the ears.

Chap. XII.

A very delightful adventure, as well to the persons con|cerned, as to the good-natured reader.

ADAMS, Fanny, and the guide, set out toge|ther, about one in the morning, the moon being just risen. They had not gone above a mile before a most violent storm of rain obliged them to take shelter in an inn, or rather ale-house; where Adams immediately procured himself a good fire, a toast and ale, and a pipe, and began to smoke with great content, utterly forgetting every thing that had happened.

Fanny sat likewise down by the fire; but was much more impatient at the storm. She presently engaged the eyes of the host, his wife, the maid of the house, and the young fellow who was their guide; they all conceived they had never seen any thing half so handsome: and indeed, reader, if thou art of an amorous hue, I advise you to skip over

the next paragraph: which, to render our history perfect, we are obliged to set down, humbly hop|ing, that we may escape the fate of Pygmalion: for if it should happen to us or to thee to be struck with this picture, we should be perhaps in as helpless a condition as Narcissus, and might say to our|selves, quod petis est nusquam. Or, if the finest fea|tures in it should set lady—'s image before our eyes, we should be still in as bad a situation, and might say to our desires, Coelum ipsum petimus stul|titia.

Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age: she was tall and delicately shaped; but not one of those slender young women, who seem rather in|tended to hang up in the hall of an anatomist, than for any other purpose. On the contrary, she was so plump, that she seemed bursting through her tight stays, especially in the part which confined her swel|ling breasts. Nor did her hips want the assistance of a hoop to extend them. The exact shape of her arms denoted the form of those limbs which she concealed; and though they were a little reddened by her labour; yet, if her sleeve slipt above her el|bow, or her handkerchief discovered any part of her neck, a whiteness appeared which the finest Italian paint would be unable to reach. Her hair was of a chesnut brown, and nature had been extremely lavish to her of it, which she had cut, and on Sun|days used to curl down her neck in the modern fa|shion. Her forehead was high, her eye-brows arched, and rather full than otherwise. Her eyes black and sparkling; her nose just inclining to the Roman; her lips red and moist, and her under lip, according to the opinion of the ladies, too pouting. Her teeth were white, but not exactly even. The small-pox had left one only mark on her chin, which

was so large it might have been mistaken for a dim|ple, had not her left cheek produced one so near a neighbour to it, that the former served only for a ••oil to the latter. Her complexion was fair, a lit|tle injured by the sun, but overspread with such a bloom, that the finest ladies would have exchanged all their white for it: add to these a countenance, in which, though she was extremely bashful, a sensibi|lity appeared almost incredible; and a sweetness whenever she smiled, beyond either imitation or de|scription. To conclude all, she had a natural genti|lity, superior to the acquisition of art, and which surprized all who beheld her.

This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with Adams, when her attention was suddenly engaged by a voice from an inner room, which sung the fol|lowing song.

The SONG.

SAY, Chloe, where must the swain stray, Who is by thy beauties undone, To wash their remembrance away; To what distant Lethe must run? The wretch who is sentenc'd to die, May escape, and leave justice behind; From his country perhaps he may fly: But O can he fly from his mind!

O rapture! unthought of before, To be thus of Chloe possest; Nor she, nor no tyrant's hard power, Her image can tear from my breast. But felt not Narcissus more joy, With his eyes he beheld his lov'd charms? Yet what he beheld, the fond boy More eagerly wish'd in his arms.

How can it thy dear image be, Which fills thus my bosom with woe? Can aught bear resemblance to thee, Which grief and not joy can bestow? This counterfeit snatch from my heart, Ye pow'rs, tho' with torment I rave, Tho' mortal▪ will prove the fell smart, I then shall find rest in my grave.

Ah! see the dear nymph o'er the plain Come smiling and tripping along, A thousand loves dance in her train; The graces around her all throng. To meet her soft Zephyrus flies, And wafts all the sweets from the flow'rs; Ah rogue! whilst he kisses her eyes, More sweets from her breath be devours.

My soul, whilst I gaze, is on fire, But her looks were so tender and kind; My hope almost reach'd my desire, And left lame despair far behind. Transported with madness I flew, And eagerly seiz'd on my bliss; Her bosom but half she withdrew, But half she refus'd my fond kiss.

Advances like these made me bold, I whisper'd her, Love—we're alone, The rest let immortals unfold, No language can tell but their own. Ah Chloe, expiring, I cry'd, How long I thy cruelty bore? Ah! Strephon, she blushing reply'd. You ne'er were so pressing before.

Adams had been ruminating all this time on a passage in AEschylus, without attending in the least to the voice, tho' one of the most melodious that ever was heard; when casting his eyes on Fanny, he cried out, 'Bless us, you look extremely pale.' Pale! Mr. Adams, says she, O Jesus! and fell backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung his AEschylus into the fire, and fell a roaring to the people of the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 for help. He soon summoned every one into the room, and the songster among the rest: but, O reader, when this nightingale, who was no other than Joseph Andrews himself, saw his beloved Fanny in this situation we have de|scribed her, can'st thou conceive the agitations of his mind? If thou can'st not, wave that meditation to behold his happiness, when clasping her in his arms, he found life and blood returning into her cheeks: when he saw her open her beloved eyes, and heard her with the softest accent whisper,

Are you Joseph Andrews?

'Art thou my Fanny?' he answered eagerly, and pulling her to his heart, he imprinted numberless kisses on her lips, without considering who were present.

If prudes are offended at the lusciousness of this picture, they may take their eyes off from it, and sur|vey parson Adams dancing about the room in a rap|ture of joy. Some philosophers may perhaps doubt, whether he was not the happiest of the three; for the goodness of his heart enjoyed the blessings which were exulting in the breasts of both the other two, together with his own. But we shall leave such dis|quisitions as too deep for us, to those who are build|ing some favourite hypothesis, which they will refuse no metaphysical rubbish to erect and support: for our part, we give it clearly on the side of Joseph, whose happiness was not only greater than the par|son's,

but of longer duration: for as soon as the first tumults of Adams's rapture were over, he cast his eyes towards the fire, where AEschylus lay expir|ing; and immediately rescued the poor ••emains, to wit, the sheep-skin covering of his dear friend, which was the work of his own hands, and had been his inseparable companion for ••••wards of thirty years.

Fanny had no sooner perfectly ••••••••ered herself, than she began to restrain the impetuosity of her transport; and reflecting on what she had done and suffered in the presence of so many, she was imme|diately covered with confusion, and pushing Jo|seph gently from her, she begged him to be quiet: nor would admit of either kiss or embrace, any longer. Then seeing Mrs. Slipslop, she curt'sied, and offered to advance to her; but that high woman would not return one of her curt'sies; but casting her eyes another way, immediately withdrew into another room, muttering as she went, she wondered who the creature was.

CHAP. XIII.

A dissertation concerning high people and low people, with Mrs. Slipslop's departure in no very good tem|per of mind, and the evil plight in which she left A|dams and his company.

IT will doubtless seem extremely odd to many readers, that Mrs. Slipslop, who had lived seve|ral years in the same house with Fanny, should in a short separation utterly forget her. And indeed the truth is, that she remembered her very well. As we would not willingly therefore, that any thing should appear unnatural in this our history, we will en|deavour

to explain the reasons of her conduct; nor do we doubt being able to satisfy the most curious reader, that Mrs. Slipslop did not in the least devi|ate from the common road in this behaviour; and indeed, had she done otherwise, she must have de|scended below herself, and would have very justly been liable to censure.

Be it known then, that the human species are divided into two sorts of people, to wit, High people and Low people. As by high people I would not be understood to mean persons literal|ly born higher in their dimensions than the rest of the species, nor metaphorically those of exalted characters or abilities; so by low people I cannot be construed to intend the reverse. High people signify no other than people of fashion, and low people those of no fashion. Now this word Fa|shion hath by long use lost its original meaning, from which at present it gives us a very different idea; for I am deceived, if by persons of fashion, we do not generally include a conception of birth and accomplishments superior to the herd of man|kind; whereas in reality, nothing more was ori|ginally meant by a person of fashion, than a person who drest himself in the fashion of the times; and the word really and truly signifies no more at this day. Now the world being thus divided into peo|ple of fashion, and people of no fashion, a fierce con••ention arose between them; nor would those of one party, to avoid suspicion, be seen publick|ly to speak to those of the other, though they often held a very good correspondence in private. In this contention, it is difficult to say which party succeeded: for whilst the people of fashion seized several places to their own use, such as courts, as|semblies, operas, balls, &c. the people of no fashi|on,

besides one royal place, called his majesty's bear-garden, have been in constant possession of all hops, fairs, revels, &c. Two places have been agreed to be divided between them, namely the church and the playhouse; where they segregate themselves from each other in a remarkable man|ner: for as the people of fashion exalt themselves at church over the heads of the people of no fashi|on: so in the playhouse they abase themselves in the same degree under their feet. This distincti|on I have never met with any one able to account for: it is sufficient, that so far from looking on each other as brethren in the Christian language▪ they seem scarce to regard each other as of the same species. This the terms,

strange persons, people one does not know, the creature, wretches, beasts, brutes,

and many other appellations evidently demonstrate; which Mrs. Slipslop hav|ing often heard her mistress use, thought she had also a right to use in her turn: and, perhaps, she was not mistaken; for these two parties especially those bordering nearly on each other, to wit, the lowest of the high, and the highest of the low, of|ten change their parties according to place and time; for those who are people of fashion in one place, are often people of no fashion in another. And with regard to time, it may not be unpleasant to survey the picture of dependance like a kind of ladder: as for instance; early in the morning ari|ses the postilion, or some other boy which great families, no more than great ships, are without, and falls to brushing the cloaths, and cleaning the shoes of John the footman, who being drest him|self, applies his hand to the same labours for Mr. Second-hand the squire's gentleman; the gentle|man in the like manner, a little later in the day,

attends the squire; the squire is no sooner equip|ped, than he attends the levee of my lord; which is no sooner over, than my lord himself is seen at the levee of the favourite, who, after the hour of homage is at an end, appears himself to pay ho|mage to the levee of his sovereign. Nor is there, perhaps, in this whole ladder of dependance, any one step at a greater distance from the other, than the first from the second: so that to a philosopher the question might only seem, whether you would chuse to be a great man at six in the morning, or at two in the afternoon. And yet there are scarce two of these, who do not think the least familia|rity with the persons below them a condescension, and, if they were to go one step farther, a degra|dation.

And now, reader, I hope thou wilt pardon this long digression, which ••eemed to me necessary to vindicate the character of Mrs. Slipslop, from what low people who have never seen high people, might think an absurdity: but we who know them, must have daily found very high persons know us in one place and not in another, to-day, and not to|morrow; all which it is difficult to account for, otherwise than I have here endeavoured: and per|haps, if the gods, according to the opinion of some, made men only to laugh at them; there is no part of our behaviour which answers the end of our creation better than this.

But to return to our history: Adams who knew no more of this than the cat which sat on the ta|ble, imagining Mrs. Slipslop's memory had been much worse than it really was, followed her into the next room, crying out,

Madam Slipslop, here is one of your old acquaintance: do but see what a fine woman she is grown since she left lady

Booby's service.

I think I reflect something of her,

answered she, with great dignity,

but I can't remember all the inferior servants in our fa|mily.

She then proceeded to satisfy Adams's cu|riosity, by telling him,

when she arrived at the inn, she found a chaise ready for her; that her lady being expected very shortly in the country, she was obliged to make the utmost haste, and in commensuration, of Joseph's lameness, she had taken him with her;

and lastly,

that the exces|sive virulence of the storm had driven them into the house where he found them.

After which, she acquainted Adams with his having left his horse, and exprest some wonder at his having strayed so far out of his way, and at meeting him, as she said,

in the company of that wench, who she feared was no better than she should be.

The horse was no sooner put into Adams's head, but he was immediately driven out by this reflec|tion on the character of Fanny. He protested,

••e believed there was not a chaster damsel in the universe. I heartily wish, I heartily wish,

cried he, (snapping his fingers) that all her betters were as good. He then proceeded to inform her of the accident of their meeting; but when he came to mention the circumstance of delivering her from the rape, she said,

she thought him properer for the army than the clergy: that it did not become a clergyman to lay violent hands on any one; that he should have rather prayed that she might be strengthened.

Adams said,

he was very far from being ashamed of what he had done;

she replied,

want of shame was not the currycuristic of a clergyman.

This dialogue might have pro|bably grown warmer, ••ad not Joseph opportunely entered the room, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 leave of Madam Slip|slop

to introduce Fanny: but she positively refused to admit any such trollops; and told him,

she would have been burnt, before she would have suffered him to get into a chaise with her, if she had once respected him of having his sluts way|laid on the road for him;

adding,

that Mr. Adams acted a very pretty part, and she did not doubt but to see him a bishop.

He made the best bow he could, and cried out,

I thank you, madam, for that right reverend appellation, which I shall take all honest means to deserve.

Very honest means,

returned she with a sneer,

to bring good people together.

At which words Adams took two or three strides across the room, when the coachman came to inform Mrs. Slipslop,

that the storm was over, and the moon shone ve|ry bright.

She then sent for Joseph, who was sitting without with his Fanny, and would have had him gone with her: but he peremptorily refu|sed to leave Fanny behind; which threw the good woman into a violent rage. She said,

she would inform her lady what doings were carrying on, and did not doubt but she would rid the parish of all such people;

and concluded a long speech full of bitterness and very hard words, with some re|flections on the clergy, not decent to repeat: at last, finding Joseph unmoveable, she flung herself into the chaise, casting a look at Fanny as she went, not unlike that which Cleopatra gives Octavia in the play. To say the truth, she was most dis|agreeably disappointed by the presence of Fanny; she had, from her first seeing Joseph at the inn, conceived hopes of something which might have been accomplished at an ale-house as well as a palace. Indeed, it is probable Mr. Adams had

rescued more than Fanny from the danger of a rape that evening.

When the chaise had carried off the enraged Slip|slop; Adams, Joseph, and Fanny assembled over the fire; where they had a great deal of innocent chat, pretty enough; but as possibly it would not be very entertaining to the reader, we shall hasten to the morning; only observing that none of them went to bed that night. Adams when he had smoaked three pipes, took a comfortable nap in a great chair, and left the lovers, whose eyes were too well employed to permit any desire of shutting them, to enjoy by themselves, during some hours, an happi|ness which none of my readers who have never been in love, are capable of the least conception of, tho' we had as many tongues as Homer desired to de|scribe it with, and which all true lovers will repre|sent to their own minds without the least assistance from us.

Let it suffice then to say, that Fanny, after a thousand entreaties, at last gave up her whole soul to Joseph, and almost fainting in his arms, with a sigh infinitely softer and sweeter too, than any Ara|bian breeze, she whispered to his lips, which were then close to hers,

O Joseph, you have won me; I will be yours for ever.

Joseph having thanked her on his knees, and embraced her with eagerness, which she now almost returned, leapt up in a rap|ture, and awakened the parson, earnestly begging him,

that he would that instant join their hands to|gether.

Adams rebuked him for his request, and told him,

he would by no means consent to any thing contrary to the forms of the church: that he had no licence, nor indeed would he advise him to obtain one. That the church had prescribed a form, namely the publication of banns, with

which all good christians ought to comply, and to the omission of which he attributed the many mi|series which befel great folks in marriage:

con|cluding,

As many as are joined together other|wise than G—'s word doth allow, are not joined together by G—, neither is their matrimony lawful.

Fanny agreed with the parson, saying to Joseph with a blush,

she assured him she would not consent to any such thing, and that she won|dered at his offering it.

In which resolution she was comforted, and commended by Adams; and Joseph was obliged to wait patiently till after the third publication of the banns, which however he obtained the consent of Fanny, in the presence of Adams, to put in at their arrival.

The sun had been now risen some hours, when Joseph finding his leg surprizingly recovered, pro|posed to walk forward; but when they were all rea|dy to set out, an accident a little retarded them. This was no other than the reckoning, which a|mounted to seven shillings; no great sum, if we consider the immense quantity of ale which Mr. A|dams poured in. Indeed they had no objection to the reasonableness of the bill, but many to the pro|bability of paying it; for the fellow who had taken poor Fanny's purse, had unluckily forgot to return it. So that the account stood thus:

Mr. Adams and company Dr.	0	7	0
In Mr. Adams's Pocket,	0	0	6½
In Mr. Joseph's,	0	0	0
In Mrs. Fanny's,	0	0	0
Balance,	0	6	5½

They stood silent some few minutes, staring at each other, when Adams whipt out on his toes, and asked the hostess 'if there was no clergyman in that pa|rish? she answered 'there was.' 'Is he wealthy?' replied he; to which she answered in the affirma|tive. Adams then snapping his fingers returned overjoyed to his companions, crying out, Heureka, Heureka; which not being understood, he told them in plain English,

they need give themselves no trouble; for he had a brother in the parish, who would defray the reckoning, and that he would just step to his house and fetch the money, and return to them immediately.

CHAP. XIV.

An interview between parson Adams and parson Trulliber.

PARSON Adams came to the house of Parson Trulliber, whom he found stript into his waist|coat, with an apron on, and a pale in his hand, just come from serving his hogs; for Mr. Trulliber was a parson on Sundays, but all the other six might more properly be called a farmer. He oc|cupied a small piece of land of his own, besides which he rented a considerable deal more. His wife milked his cows, managed his dairy, and fol|lowed the markets with butter and eggs. The hogs ••ell chiefly to his care, which he carefully waited on at home, and attended to fairs; on which occasion he was liable to many jokes, his own size being with much ale rendered little infe|rior to that of the beasts he sold. He was indeed one of the largest men you should see, and could have acted the part of Sir John Falstaff without

stuffing. Add to this, that the rotundity of his belly was considerably increased by the shortness of his stature, his shadow ascending very near as far in height when he lay on his back, as when he stood on his legs. His voice was loud and hoarse, and his accent extremely broad; to complete the whole, he had a stateliness in his gait, when he walked, not unlike that of a goose, only he stalked slower.

Mr. Trulliber being informed that somebody wanted to speak with him, immediately slipt off his apron, and cloathed himself in an old night|gown, being the dress in which he always saw his company at home. His wife, who informed of Mr. Adams's arrival, had made a small mistake; for she had told her husband,

she believed here was a man come for some of his hogs.

This supposition made Mr. Trulliber hasten with the utmost expedition to attend his guest. He no sooner saw Adams, than not in the least doubting the cause of his errand to be what his wife had imagined, he told him,

he was come in very good time; that he expected a dealer that very after|noon;

and added,

they were all pure and fat, and upwards of 20 score a piece.

Adams an|swered, 'he believed he did not know him.' Yes, yes,' cried Trulliber, I have seen you often at fair;

why, we have dealt before now, mun, I warrant you; yes, yes, cries he, I remember thy face very well, but won't mention a word more till you have seen them, tho' I have never sold thee a flitch of such bacon as is now in the stye.

Upon which he laid violent hands on Adams, and dragged him into the hogs-stye, which was indeed but two steps from his parlour-window. They were no sooner arrived there than he cry'd out,

Do but handle them; step in, friend, art welcome to handle them, whether dost buy or no.

A•• which words opening the gate, he pushed Adams into the pig-stye, insisting on it, that he should handle them before he would talk one word with him. Adams, whose natural complaisance was beyond any artificial, was obliged to comply before he was suffered to explain himself; and laying hold on one of their tails, the unruly beast gave such a sudden spring, that he threw poor Adams all along in the mire. Trulliber, instead of assisting him to get up, burst into a laughter, and entering the stye, said to Adams, with some contempt▪ Why, dost not know how to handle a hog? and was going to lay hold of one himself; but Adams, who thought he had carried his complaisance far enough, was no sooner on his legs, than he escaped out of the reach of the animals, and cried out, Nihil habeo cum porcis:

I am a clergyman, Sir, and am not come to buy hogs.

Trulliber an|swered,

he was sorry for the mistake; but that he must blame his wife;

adding, she was a fool, and always committed blunders. He then desired him to walk in and clean himself; that he would only fasten up the stye and follow him. Adams desired leave to dry his great coat, wig and hat, by the fire, which Trulliber granted. Mrs. Trul|liber would have brought him a bason of water to wash his face; but her husband bid her be quiet, like a fool, as she was, or she would commit more blunders, and then directed Adams to the pump. While Adams was thus employed, Trulliber per|ceiving no great respect for the appearance of his guest, fastened the parlour-door, and now conduct|ed him into the kitchen; telling him, he believed a cup of drink would do him no harm, and whis|pered

his wife to draw a little of the worst ale. After a short silence, Adams said,

I fancy, Sir, you already perceive me to be a clergyman.

'Ay, ay,' cries Trulliber grinning;

I perceive you have some cassock; I will not venture to caale it a whole one.

Adams answered,

it was indeed none of the best; but he had the misfortune to tear it about ten years ago in passing over a stile.

Mrs. Trulliber returning with the drink, told her husband,

she fancied the gentleman was a travel|ler, and that he would be glad to eat a bit,

Trul|liber bid her hold her impertinent tongue; and asked her,

if parsons used to travel without hor|ses?

adding,

he supposed the gentleman had none by his having no boots on.

Yes, Sir, yes,

says Adams,

I have a horse, but I left him behind me.

'I am glad to hear you have one,' says Trulliber;

for I assure you I don't love to see clergymen on foot; it is not seemly nor suit|ing the dignity of the cloth.

Here Trulliber made a long oration on the dignity of the cloth, (or rather gown) not worth much relating, till his wife had spread the table and set a mess of porridge on it for his breakfast. He then said to Adams,

I don't know, friend, how you came to caale on me; however, as you are here, if you think proper to eat a morsel, you may.

Adams accepted the in|vitation, and the two parsons sat down together, Mrs. Trulliber waiting behind her husband's chair, as was, it seems, her custom. Trulliber eat hear|tily, but scarce put any thing in his mouth with|out finding fault with his wife's cookery. All which the poor woman bore patiently. Indeed she was so absolute an admirer of her husband's greatness and importance, of which she had fre|quent hints from his own mouth, that she almost

carried her adoration to an opinion of infallibility. To say the truth, the parson had exercised her more ways than one, and the pious woman had so well edified by her husband's sermons, that she had resolved to receive the bad things of the world together with the good. She had indeed been at first a little contentious; but he had long since got the better, partly by her love for this, partly by her fear for that, partly by her religion, partly by the respect he paid himself, and partly by that which she received from the parish: She had, in short, absolutely submitted, and now worshipped her husband as Sarah did Abraham, calling him (not lord but) master. Whilst they were at the table, her husband gave her a fresh example of his great|ness; for as she had just delivered a cup of ale to Adams, he snatched it out of his hand, and, cry|ing out, I caal'd vurst, swallowed down the ale. Adams deny'd it; as was referred to the wife, who, tho' her conscience was on the side of Adams, durst not give it against her husband. Upon which he said,

No, Sir, no. I should not have been so rude to have taken it from you, if you had caal'd vurst; but I'd have you know I'm a better man than to suffer the best he in the kingdom to drink before me in my own house, when I caale vurst.

As soon as their breakfast was ended, Adams be|gan in the following manner:

I think, Sir, it is high time to inform you of the business of my em|bassy. I am a traveller, and am passing this way in company with two young people, a lad and a damsel, my parishoners, towards my own cure: we stopt at a house of hospitality in the parish, where they directed me to you, as having the cure.—Tho' I am but a curate,

says Trulliber,

I believe I am as warm as the vicar himself, or per|haps

the rector of the next parish too; I believe I could buy them both.

'Sir,' cries Adams,

I re|joice thereat. Now, Sir, my business is, that we are by various accidents stript of our money, and are not able to pay our reckoning, being seven shillings. I therefore request you to assist me with the loan of those seven shillings, and also seven shillings more, which peradventure I shall return to you; but if not, I am convinced you will joy|fully embrace such an opportunity of laying up a treasure in a better place than any this world af|fords.

Suppose a stranger who entered the chambers of a lawyer, being imagined a client, when the lawyer was preparing his palm for the fee, should pull out a writ against him. Suppose an apothecary, at the door of ••••ariot containing some great doctor of eminent skill, should instead of directions to a pati|ent, present him with a potion for himself. Sup|pose a minister should, instead of a good round sum, treat my Lord—or Sir—or Esq—with a good broom-stick. Suppose a civil companion, or a led captain should, instead of virtue, and honour, and beauty, and parts, and admiration, thunder vice and infamy, and ugliness, and folly, and contempt in his patron's ears. Suppose when a tradesman first carries in his bill the man of fashion should pay it; or suppose, if he did so, the tradesman should abate what he had overcharged on the supposition of waiting. In short,—suppose what you will, you never can, nor will suppose any thing equal to the astonishment which seized on Trulliber, as soon as Adams had ended his speech. A while he rolled his eyes in silence, sometimes surveying Adams, then his wife, then casting them on the ground, then lifting them up to heaven. At last, he burst forth

in the following accents.

Sir, I believe I know where to lay up my little treasure as well as an|other; I thank G—if I am not so warm as some, I am content; that is a blessing greater than rich|es; and he to whom that is given need ask no more. To be content with a little is greater than to possess the world, which man may possess with|out being so. Lay up my treasures! what mat|ters where a man's treasure is, whose heart is in the scripture? there is the treasure of a christian.

At these words the water ran from Adams's eyes; and catching Trulliber by the hand in a rapture, 'Brother,' says he,

heavens bless the accident by which I came to see you; I would have walked many a mile to have communed with you, and be|lieve me, I shall shortly pay you a second visit: but my friends, I fancy, by this time, wonder at my stay; so let me have the money immediately.

Trulliber then put on a stern look, and cried out, 'Thou dost not intend to rob me?' At which the wife bursting into tears, fell on her knees, and roared out,

O dear Sir, for heaven's sake don't rob my master, we are but poor people.

Get up, for a fool as thou art, and go about thy business,

said Trulliber,

dost thou think the man will ven|ture his life? he is a beggar, and no robber.

'Ve|ry true indeed,' answered Adams.

I wish with all my heart, the tithing-man was here,

cries Trulliber,

I would have thee punished as a vaga|bond for thy impudence. Fourteen shillings in|deed! I won't give thee a farthing, I believe thou art no more a clergyman than the woman there,

(pointing to his wife)

but if thou art, dost deserve to have thy gown stript over thy shoulders, for running about the country in such a manner.

I forgive your suspicions,

says Adams; but suppose

I'm not a clergyman, I am nevertheless thy bro|ther; and thou, as a christian, much more as a clergyman, art obliged to relieve my distress.

—'Dost preach to me?' replied Trulliber,

dost pre|tend to instruct me in my duty?

Isacks, a good story,

cries Mrs. Trulliber,

to preach to my master.

'Silence, woman,' cries Trulliber,

I would have thee know, friend,

(addressing himself to Adams)

I shall not learn my duty from such as thee; I know what charity is, better than to give it to vagabonds.

Besides, if we were inclined, the poors rate obliges us to give so much charity,

cries the wife.—'Pugh!' thou art a fool.

Poors rate! hold thy nonsense,

answered Trulliber: and then turning to Adams, he told him

he would give him nothing.

'I am sorry,' answered Adams,

that you do know what charity is, since you practise it no better; I must tell you, if you trust to your knowledge for your justification, you will find yourself deceived, though you should add faith to it without good works.

'Fellow,' cries Trulliber,

dost thou speak against faith in my house? Get out of my doors, I will no longer remain under the same roof with a wretch who speaks wanton|ly of faith and the sciptures,

Name not the scriptures,

says Adams.

How, not name the scriptures! Do you disbelieve the scriptures?

cries Trulliber. 'No, but you do,' answered A|dams,

if I may reason from your practice: for their commands are so explicit, and their rewards and punishments so immense, that it is impossible a man should stedfastly believe without obeying▪ Now there is no command more express, no duty more frequently enjoined, than charity. Who|ever therefore is void of charity, I make no scru|ple of pronouncing that he is no christian.

I

would not advise thee, (says Trulliber) to say that I am no christian; I won't take it of you: for I believe I am as good a man as thyself;

(and in|deed, though he was now rather too corpulent for athletic exercises, he had in his youth been one of the best boxers and cudgel-players in the country.) His wife, seeing him clench his fist, interposed and begged him not to fight, but shew himself a true christian, and take the law of him. As nothing could provoke Adams to strike, but an absolute as|sault on himself or his friend, he smiled at the angry look and gestures of Trulliber; and telling him, he was sorry to see such men in orders, departed with|out further ceremony.

CHAP. XV.

An adventure, the consequence of a new instance which parson Adams gave of his forgetfulness.

WHEN he came back to the inn, he found Jo|seph and Fanny sitting together. They were so far from thinking his absence long, as he had feared they would, that they never once miss'd or thought of him. Indeed I have been often as|sured by both, that they spent these hours in a most delightful conversation: But as I never could pre|vail on either to relate it; so I cannot communicate it to the reader.

Adams acquainted the lovers with the ill success of his enterprize. They were all greatly confound|ed, none being able to propose any method of de|parting, till Joseph at last advised calling in the host|ess, and desiring her to trust them: which Fanny faid she despaired of her doing, as she was one of the sourest-fac'd women she had ever beheld.

But she was agreeably disappointed; for the ho|stess was no sooner asked the question than she rea|dily agreed; and with a curt'sy and smile wished them a good journey. However, lest Fanny's skill in physiognomy should be called in question, we will venture to assign one reason, which might pro|bably incline her to this confidence and good-hu|mour. When Adams said he was going to visit his brother, he had unwittingly imposed on Joseph and Fanny; who both believed he had meant his natural brother, and not his brother in divinity; and had so informed the hostess on her enquiry af|ter him. Now Mr. Trulliber had by his professions of piety, by his gravity, austerity, reserve, and opini|on of his great wealth, so great an authority in his parish, that they all lived in the utmost fear and ap|prehension of him. It was therefore no wonder that the hostess, who knew it was in his option whether she should ever sell another mug of drink, did not dare to affront his supposed brother by de|nying him credit.

They were now just on their departure, ••hen Adams recollected he had left his great coat and h••t at Mr. Trulliber's. As he was not desirous of re|newing his visit, the hostess herself, having no ser|vant at home, offered to fetch it.

This was an unfortunate expedient: for the ho|stess was soon undeceived in the opinion she had en|tertained of Adams, whom Trulliber abused in the grossest terms, especially when he heard he had the assurance to pretend to be his near relation.

At her return therefore, she entirely changed her note. She said,

Folks might be ashamed of tra|velling about, and pretending to be what they were not. That taxes were high, and for her part, she was obliged to pay for what she had: she could

not therefore possibly, nor would she trust any bo|dy, no not her own father. That money was ne|ver scarcer, and she wanted to make up a sum. That she expected therefore they should pay their reckoning before they left the house.

Adams was now greatly perplexed: but as he knew that he could easily have borrowed such a sum in his own parish, and as he knew he would have lent it himself to any mortal in distress; so he took fresh courage, and sallied out all round the parish, but to no purpose; he returned as pennyless as he went, groaning and lamenting, that it was impossible, in a country professing christianity, for a wretch to starve in the midst of his fellow-crea|tures who abounded.

Whilst he was gone, the hostess, who stayed as a sort of guard with Joseph and Fanny, entertain|ed them with the goodness of parson Trulliber. And indeed he had not only a very good character, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to other qualities, in the neighbourhood, but 〈◊〉〈◊〉 reputed a man of great charity: for tho' he never gave a farthing, he had always that word in his m••••th.

Adams was no sooner returned the second time, than the storm grew exceeding high, the hostess de|claring among other things, that if they offered to stir without paying her, she would soon overtake them with a warrant.

Plato and Aristotle, or somebody else hath said, THAT WHEN THE MOST EXQUISITE CUNNING FAILS, CHANCE OFTEN HITS THE MARK, AND THAT BY MEANS THE LEAST EXPECTED. Virgil expresses this very boldly:

Turne, quod optanti divum promittere nemo Auderet volvenda dies, en! attulit ultro.

I would quote more great men if I could: but my memory not permitting me, I will proceed to ex|emplify these observations by the following in|stance.

There chanced (for Adams had not cunning enough to contrive it) to be at that time 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the ale|house, a fellow, who had been formerly a drum|mer in an Irish regiment, and now travelled the country as a pedlar. This man having attentive|ly listened to the discourse of the hostess, at last took Adams aside, and asked him what the sum was for which they were detained. As soon as he was in|formed, he sighed, and said,

he was sorry it was so much: for that he had no more than six shil|lings and sixpence in his pocket, which he would lend them with all his heart.

Adams gave a ca|per, and cry'd out,

It would do: for that he had sixpence himself.

And thus these poor people, who could not engage the compassion of riches and piety, were at length delivered out of their distress by the charity of a poor pedlar.

I shall refer it to my reader to make what obser|vations he pleases on this incident: it is sufficient for me to inform him, that after Adams and his companions had returned him a thousand thanks, and told him where he might call to be repaid, they all sallied out of the house without any compli|ments from their hostess, or indeed without paying her any; Adams declaring, he would take particu|lar care never to call there again, and she on her side assuring them she wanted no such guests.

CHAP. XVI.

A very curious adventure, in which Mr. Adams gave a much greater instance of the honest simplicity of his heart ••••an of his experience in the ways of this world.

OUR travellers had walked about two miles from that inn, which they had more reason to have mistaken for a castle, that Don Quixote ever had any of those in which he sojourned; seeing they had met with much difficulty in escaping out of its walls; when they came to a parish, and beheld a sign of invitation hanging out. A gentleman sat smoaking a pipe at the door; of whom Adams en|quired the road, and received so courteous and oblig|ing an answer, accompanied with so smiling a coun|tenace, that the good parson, whose heart was natu|rally disposed to love and affection, began to ask se|veral other questions; particularly the name of the parish, and who was the owner of a large house whose front they then had in prospect. The gen|tleman answered as obligingly as before: and as to the house, acquainted him it was his own. He then proceeded in the following manner:

Sir, I pre|sume by your habit you are a clergyman: and as you are travelling on foot, I suppose a glass of good beer will not be disagreeable to you; and I can recommend my landlord's within, as some of the best in all this country. What say you, will you halt a little and let us take a pipe together? There is no better tobacco in the kingdom.

This pro|posal was not displeasing to Adams, who had allay|ed his thirst that day with no better liquor than what Mrs. Trulliber's cellar had produced; and which

was indeed little superior either in richness or fla|vour to that which distilled from those grains her generous husband bestowed on his hogs. Having therefore abundantly thanked the gentleman for his kind invitation, and bid Joseph and Fanny fol|low him, he entered the ale-house, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a large loaf and cheese, and a pitcher of beer, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 truly answered the character given of it, being set be|fore them, the three travellers fell to eating with appetites infinitely more voracious than are to be found at the most exquisite eating-houses in the parish of St. James's.

The gentleman expressed great delight in the hearty and chearful behaviour of Adams; and par|ticularly in the familiarity with which he conver|sed with Joseph and Fanny, whom he often called his children, a term he explained to mean no more than his parishioners; saying, he looked on all those whom God had entrusted to his cure, to stand to him in that relation. The gentleman, shaking him by the hand, highly applauded those sentiments. 'They are indeed,' says he,

the true principles of a christian divine; and I heartily wish they were universal: but on the contrary, I am sorry to say the parson of our parish, instead of esteeming his poor parishioners as a part of his family, seems rather to consider them as not of the same species with himself. He seldom speaks to any, unless some few of the richest of us; nay, indeed he will not move his hat to the others. I often laugh, when I behold him on Sundays strutting along the church-yard like a turky-cock, through rows of his parishioners; who bow to him with as much submission, and are as unregarded as a set of servile courtiers by the proudest prince in Christendom. But if such

temporal pride is ridiculous, surely the spiritual is odious and detestable: if such a puffed-up emp|ty human bladder, strutting in princely robes, just moves one's derision; surely in the habit of a priest it must raise out scorn.

〈◊〉〈◊〉 answer'd Adams, your opinion is right 〈◊〉〈◊〉 I hope such examples are rare. The clergy whom I have the honour to know, main|tain a different behaviour; and you will allow me, Sir, that the readiness which too many of the laity sh••w to contemn the order, may be one rea|son of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 avoiding too much humility.

Ve|ry true indeed,

says the gentleman;

I find, Sir, you are a man of excellent sense, and am happy in this opportunity of knowing you: perhaps our accidental meeting may not be disadvantageous to you neither. At present, I shall only say to you, that the incumbent of this living is old and infirm; and that it is in my gift. Doctor, give me your hand; and assure yourself of it at his decease.

Adams told him,

he was never more confounded in his life, than at his utter incapaci|ty to make any return to such noble and unmerit|ed generosity.

'A mere trifle, Sir,' cries the gentleman,

scarce worth your acceptance; a lit|tle more than three hundred a year. I wish it was double the value for your sake.

Adams bowed, and cried from the emotions of his grati|tude; when the other asked him,

if he was mar|ried, or had any children, besides those in the spi|ritual sense he had mentioned.

'Sir,' replied the parson,

I have a wife and six at your service.

That is unlucky, says the gentleman; for I would otherwise have taken you into my own house as my chaplain; however, I have another in the parish, (for the parsonage-house is not good

enough) which I will furnish for you. Pray does your wife understand a dairy?

I can't pro|fess she does,

says Adams,

I am sorry for it,

quoth the gentleman;

I would have given you half a dozen cows, and very good grounds to have maintained them.

'Sir', says Adams 〈◊〉〈◊〉 an ec|stacy,

you are too liberal; indeed 〈◊〉〈◊〉 are.

'Not at all,' cries the gentleman,

I esteem riches only as they give me an opportunity of doing good; and I never saw one whom I had a greater inclination to serve.

At which words he shook him heartily by the hand, and told him he had suf|ficient room in his house to entertain him and his friends. Adams begged he might give him no such trouble; that he could be very well accom|modated in the house where they were; forgetting they had not a sixpenny piece among them. The gentleman would not be denied; and informing himself how far they were travelling, he said it was too long a journey to take on foot, and begged that they would favour him, by suffering him to lend them a servant and horses; adding withal, that if they would do him the pleasure of their company only two days, he would furnish them with his coach and six. Adams turning to Joseph said,

How lucky is this gentleman's goodness to you, who I am afraid would be scarce able to hold out on your lame leg:

and then addressing the per|son who made him these liberal promises, after much bowing, he cried out,

Blessed be the hour which first introduced me to a man of your cha|rity: you are indeed a christian of the true primi|tive kind, and an honour to the country wherein you live. I would willingly have taken a pilgri|mage to the holy land to have beheld you: For the advantages which we draw from your good|ness,

give me little pleasure, in comparison of what I enjoy for your own sake; when I consi|der the treasures you are by these means laying up for yourself in a country that passeth not away. We will therefore, most generous Sir, accept your goodness, as well the entertainment you have so kindly offered us at your house this evening, as the accommodation of your horses to-morrow morning.

He then began to search for his hat, as did Joseph for his; and both they and Fanny were in order of departure, when the gentleman stop|ping short, and seeming to meditate by himself for the space of about a minute, exclaimed thus:

Sure never any thing was so unlucky; I had for|got that my house-keeper was gone abroad, and hath locked up all my rooms; indeed I would break them open for you, but shall not be able to furnish you with a bed; for she has likewise put away all my linen. I am glad it entered into my head, before I had given you the trouble of walk|ing there; besides, I believe you will find better accommodations here than you expected. Land|lord, you can provide good beds for these people, can't you?

'Yes, and please your worship,' cries the host,

and such as no lord or justice of the peace in the kingdom need be ashamed to lie in. I am heartily sorry, says the gentleman, for this disappointment. I am resolved I will never suffer her to carry away the keys again. Pray Sir, let it not make you uneasy,

cries A|dams,

we shall do very well here; and the loan of your horses is a favour we shall be incapable of making any return to

Ay! said the squire, the horses shall attend you here, at what hour in the morning you please.

And now after many civilities too tedious to enumerate, many squeezes

by the hand, with most affectionate looks and smiles at each other, and after appointing the horses at seven the next morning, the gentleman took his leave of them, and departed to his own house. Adams and his companions returned to the table, where the parson smoaked another pipe, and then they all retired to rest.

Mr. Adams rose very early, and called Joseph out of his bed, between whom a very fierce dispute ensued, whether Fanny should ride behind Joseph, or behind the gentleman's servant; Joseph insisted on it that he was perfectly recovered, and was as capable of taking care of Fanny as any other person could be. But Adams would not agree to it, and declared he would not trust her behind him; for that he was weaker than he imagined himself to be.

This dispute continued a long time, and had be|gun to be very hot, when a servant arrived from their good friend to acquaint them, that he was unfortu|nately prevented from lending them any horses; for that his groom had, unknown to him, put his whole stable under a course of physick.

This advice presently struck the two disputants dumb; Adams cried out,

was ever any thing so unlucky as this poor gentleman? I protest I am more sorry on his account than my own. You see, Joseph, how this good-natur'd man is treated by his servants; one lo••ks up his linen, another physicks his horses; and I suppose by his being at this house last night, the butler had locked up his cellar. Bless us! how good-nature is used in this world! I protest I am more concerned on his account than my own.

'So am I,' cries Jo|seph;

not that I am much troubled about walk|ing on foot; all my concern is, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 we shall get out of the house; unless God sends another ped|lar

to redeem us. But certainly this gentleman has such an affection for you, that he would lend you a larger sum than we owe here; which is not above four or five shillings.

'Very true, child,' answered Adams;

I will write a letter to him, and will even venture to sollicit him for three hal••-crown••; there will be no harm in having two or three shillings in our pockets; as we have full for|ty miles to travel, we may possibly have occasion for them.

Fanny being now risen, Joseph paid her a visit, and left Adams to write his letter, which having finished, he dispatched a boy with it to the gentle|man, and then seated himself by the door, lighted his pipe, and betook himself to meditation.

The boy staying longer than seemed to be neces|sary, Joseph, who with Fanny was now returned to the parson, expressed some apprehensions, that the gentleman's steward had locked up his purse too. To which Adams answered,

It might very possi|bly be; and he should wonder at no liberties which the devil might put into the head of a wicked ser|vant to take with so worthy a master: but added, that as the sum was so small, so noble a gentleman would be easily able to procure it in the parish; though he had it not in his own pocket.

Indeed, says he,

if it was four or five guineas, or any such large quantity of money, it might be a different matter.

They were now sat down to breakfast over some toast and ale, when the boy returned, and informed them, 'that the gentleman was not at home.'

Ve|ry well!

cries Adams;

but why, child, did you not stay 'till his return? Go back again, my good boy, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 for his coming home: he cannot be gone far, as his horses are all sick; and besides he

had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 intention to go abroad; for he invited us to spend this day and to-morrow at his house. Therefore go back, child, and tarry 'till his return home.

The messenger departed, and was back again with great expedition; bringing an account, that the gentleman was gone a long journey, and would not be at home again this month. At these words Adams seemed greatly confounded, saying,

This must be a sudden accident, as the sickness or death of a relation, or some such unforeseen misfortune; and then turning to Joseph, cried, I wish you had reminded me to have borrowed this money last night.

Joseph smiling, answer|ed,

he was very much deceived, if the gentleman would not have found some excuse to avoid lend|ing it. I own,

says he,

I was never much pleas|ed with his professing so much kindness for you at first sight: for I have heard the gentlemen of our cloth in London tell many such stories of their masters. But when the boy brought the message back of his not being at home, I presently knew what would follow; for whenever a man of fashi|on doth not care to fulfil his promises, the custom is, to order his servants that he will never be at home to the person so promised. In London they call it denying him. I have denyed Sir Thomas Booby above an hundred times; and when the man hath danced attendance for about a month, or sometimes longer, he is acquainted in the end, that the gentleman is gone out of town, and could do nothing in the business.

'Good lord!' says A|dams,

what wickedness is there in the christian world? I profess almost equal to what I have heard of the heathens. But surely, Joseph, your suspicions of this gentleman must 〈◊〉〈◊〉 unjust; for what a silly fellow must he be, who would do the

devil's work for nothing; and can'st 〈◊〉〈◊〉 me any interest he could possibly propose to himself by deceiving us in his professions?

It is not for me,

answered Joseph,

to give reasons for what men do, to a gentleman of your learning.

You say right,

quoth Adams;

knowledge of men is only to be learnt from books; Plato and Seneca for that; and those are authors, I am afraid, child, you never read.

'Not I, Sir, truly,' an|swered Joseph;

all I know is, it is a maxim among the gentlemen of our cloth, that those masters who promise the most perform the least; and I have often heard them say, they have found the largest vails in those families where they were not promised any. But, Sir, instead of considering any farther these matters, it wou'd be our wisest way to contrive some method of getting out of this house: for the generous gentleman, instead of do|ing us any service hath left us the whole reckoning to pay.

Adams was going to answer, when their host came in, and, with a kind of jeering smile, said,

Well, masters! the squire hath not sent his horses for you yet. Laud help me! how easily some folks make promises! How! says Adams, have you ever known him to do any thing of the kind before? Ay marry have I, answered the host; it is no business of mine, you know, Sir, to say any thing to a gentleman to his face: but now he is not here, I will assure you, he hath not his fel|low within the three next market towns. I own I could not help laughing, when I heard him of|fer you the living; for thereby hangs a good jest. I thought he would have offered you my house next; for one is no more his to dispose of than the other.

At these words, Adams blessing him|self declared,

he had never read of such a monster;

but what vexes me most,

says he,

is, that he hath decoyed us into running up a long debt with you, which we are not able to pay; for we have no money about us; and, what is worse, live at such a distance, that if you should trust us, I am afraid you would lose your money, for want of our finding any conveniency of sending it.

Trust you, master, says the host, that I will with all my heart; I honour the clergy too much to deny trust|ing one of them for such a trifle; besides, I like your fear of never paying me. I have lost many a debt in my life-time; but was promised to be payed them all in a very short time. I will score this reckoning for the novelty of it. It is the first I do assure you of its kind. But what say you, master, shall we have t'other pot before we part? it will waste but a little chalk more; and if you never pay me a shilling, the loss will not ruin me.

Adams liked the invitation very well; especially as it was delivered with so hearty an accent.—He shook his host by the hand, and, thanking him, said,

he would tarry another pot, rather for the pleasure of such worthy company, than for the liquor;

adding,

he was glad to find some christians left in the kingdom; for that he almost began to suspect that he was sojourning in a country inhabited only by Jews and Turks.

The kind host produced the liquor, and Joseph with Fanny retired into the garden; where while they solaced themselves with amorous discourse, Adams sat down with his host; and both filling their glasses, and lighting their pipes, they began that dialogue which the reader will find in the next chapter.

CHAP. XVII.

A dialogue between Mr. Abraham Adams and his host, which by the disagreement in their opinions, seemed to threaten an unlucky catastrophe, had it not been timely prevented by the return of the lovers.

SIR, said the host, I assure you, you are not the first to whom our squire hath promised more than he hath performed. He is so famous for this practice, that his word will not be taken for much by those who know him. I remember a young fellow whom he promised his parents to make an exciseman. The poor people, who could ill afford it, bred their son to writing, ac|counts, and other learning, to qualify him for the place, and the boy held up his head above his condition with these hopes: nor would he go to plough, nor to any other kind of work; and went constantly drest as fine as could be, with two clean holland shirts a week, and this for several years; 'till at last he followed the squire up to London, thinking there to mind him of his promises: but he could never get sight of him. So that being out of money and business, he fell into evil com|pany, and wicked courses: and in the end came to a sentence of transportation, the news of which broke the mother's heart. I will tell you another true story of him: There was a neighbour of mine, a farmer, who had two sons whom he bred up to the business. Pretty lads they were; nothing would serve the squire, but that the youngest must be made a parson. Upon which, he persuaded the father to send him to school, promising, that he would afterwards maintain

him at the university; and when he was of a pro|per age, give him a living. But after the lad had been seven years at school, and his father brought him to the squire with a letter from his master, that he was fit for the university; the squire in|stead of minding his promise, or sending him thi|ther at his expence, only told his father, that the young man was a fine scholar; and it was a pity he could not afford to keep him at Oxford for four or five years more, by which time, if he could get him a curacy, he might have him ordained. The farmer said, he was not a man ••ufficient to do any such thing.

'Why then,' answered the squire,

I am very sorry you have given him so much learning; for if he cannot get his living by that, it will rather spoil him for any thing else; and your other son who can hardly write his name, will do more at ploughing and sowing, and is in a better condition than he: and indeed so it proved; for the poor lad, not finding friends to maintain him in his learning as he had expect|ed, and being unwilling to work, fell to drinking, though he was a very sober lad before; and, in a short time, partly with grief, and partly with good liquor, fell into a consumption and died. Nay; I can tell you more still: There was another, a young woman, and the handsomest in all this neighbourhood, whom he inticed up to London, promising to make her a gentlewoman to one of your women of quality: but instead of keeping his word, we have since heard, after having a child by her himself, she became a common whore; then kept a coffee-house in Covent-gar|den; and a little after died of the French distem|per in a goal. I could tell you many more sto|ries; but how do you imagine he served me my|self?

You must know, Sir, I was bred a sea-far|ing man, and have been many voyages; 'till at last I came to be a master of a ship myself, and was in a fair way of making a fortune, when I was attacked by one of those cursed Guarda-Cos|tas, who took our ships before the beginning of the war; and after a fight, wherein I lost the greater part of my crew, my rigging being all de|molished, and two shots received between wind and water, I was forced to strike. The villains carried off my ship, a brigantine of an hundred and fifty tons, a pretty creature she was, and put me, a man and a boy, into a little bad pink, in which, with much ado, we at last made Falmouth; tho' I believe the Spaniards did not imagine she could possibly live a day at sea. Upon my re|turn hither, where my wife, who was of this country, then lived, the squire told me he was so pleased with the defence I had made against the enemy, that he did not fear getting me promoted to a lieutenancy of a man of war, if I would ac|cept of it; which I thankfully assured him I would. Well, Sir, two or three years pass'd, during which I had many repeated promises, not only from the squire, but (as he told me) from the lords of the admiralty. He never returned from London, but I was assured I might be satisfied now, for I was certain of the first vacancy; and what surprises me still, when I reflect on it, these assurances were given me with no less confidence, after so many disappointments, than at first. At last, Sir grow|ing weary, and somewhat suspicious, after so much delay, I wrote to a friend in London, who I knew had some acquaintance at the best house in the admiralty, and desired him to back the squire's interest: for indeed, I feared he had so|licited

the affair with more coolness than he pre|tended.—And what answer do you think my friend sent me?—Truly, Sir, he acquainted me, that the squire had never mentioned my name at the admiralty in his life; and unless I had much faithfuller interest, advised me to give over my pretensions, which I immediately did; and, with the concurrence of my wife, resolved to set up an ale-house, where you are heartily welcome: and so my service to you; and may the squire, and all such sneaking rascals, go to the devil toge|ther.

'O fie.' says Adams,

O fie! He is in|deed a wicked man; but G—will, I hope, turn his heart to repentance. Nay if he could but once see the meanness of this detestable vice; would he but once reflect that he is one of the most scandalous as well as pernicious liars; sure he must despise himself to so intolerable a degree, that it would be impossible for him to continue a moment in such a course. And, to confess the truth, notwithstanding the baseness of this cha|racter, which he hath too well deserved, he hath in his countenance sufficient symptoms of that bona indoles, that sweetness of disposition which furnishes out a good christian.

Ah! master, master!

(••ays the host)

if you had travelled as far as I have, and conversed with the many nati|ons where I have traded, you would not give any credit to a man's countenance. Symptoms in his countenance, quotha! I would look there, perhaps to see whether a man has had the small-pox but for nothing else.

He spoke this with so little regard to the parson's observation that it a good deal nettled him; and, taking the pipe hastily from his mouth, he thus answered:

Master of mine, perhaps, I have travelled a great deal farther than you without the as|sistance

of aship. Do you imagine failing by differ|ent cities or countries is travelling? No. Coelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt. I can go farther in an afternoon than you in a twelve month. What, I suppose, you have seen the pillars of Hercules, and perhaps the walls of Carthage. Nay, you may have heard Scylla, and seen Charybdis; you may have entered the closet where Archimedes was found at the taking Syra|cuse. I suppose you have sailed among the Cyclades, and passed the famous straits which take their name from the unfortunate Helle, whose fate is sweetly described by Apollonius Rhodius; you have passed the very spot, I conceive, where Daedalus fell into that sea, his waxen wings be|ing melted by the sun; you have traversed the Euxine sea, I have no doubt; nay, you have been on the banks of the Caspian, and called at Col|chis, to see if there is ever another golden fleece.

—'Not I truly, master,' answered the host,

I never touched at any of these places.

But I have been at all these,

replied Adams.

Then I suppose,

cries the host,

you have been at the East-Indies; for there are no such, I will be sworn, either in the West or the Levant.

Pray where's the Levant?

quoth Adams,

that should be in the East-Indies by right.

—

Oho! you are a pretty traveller,

cries the host,

and not know the Levant. My service to you, master; you must not talk of these things with me! you must not tip us the traveller; it won't go here.

Since thou art so dull to misunderstand me still,

quoth Adams,

I will inform thee; the travel|ling I mean, is in books, the only way of travel|ling

by which any knowledge is to be acquired. From them I learn what I asserted just now, that nature generally imprints such a portraiture of the mind in the countenance, that a skilful physiogno|mist will rarely be deceived. I presume you have never read the story of Socrates, to this pur|pose, and therefore I will tell it you. A cer|tain physiognomist asserted of Socrates that he plainly discovered by his features that he was a rogue in his nature. A character so contrary to the tenor of all this great man's actions and the generally received opinion concerning him, in|censed the boys of Athens, so that they threw stones at the physiognomist, and would have de|molished him for his ignorance, had not Socrates himself prevented them by confessing the truth of his observations, and acknowledging, that though he corrected his disposition by philosophy, he was indeed naturally as inclined to vice as had been predicated of him. Now, pray resolve me,—How should a man know this story, if he had not read it?

'Well, master,' said the host,

and what signifies it whether a man knows it or no? He who goes abroad as I have done, will always have opportunities enough of knowing the world with|out troubling his head with Socrates, or any such fellows.

—'Friend,' cries Adams,

if a man should sail round the world, and anchor in every harbour of it, without learning, he would return home as ignorant as he went out.

Lord help you,

answered the host,

there was my boatswain, poor fellow he could scarce either write or read, and yet he would navigate a ship with any master of a man of war; and a very pretty knowledge of trade he had too.

'Trade,' answered Adams.

As Aristotle proves in his first chapter of politics,

is below a philosopher, and unnatural as it is mana|ged now,

The host look'd stedfastly at Adams, and after a minute's silence asked him,

if he was one of the writers of the Gazetteers? for I have heard, says he, they are writ by parsons.

'Gazetteers!' said Adams 'What is that?' 'It is a dirty news-paper,' repli|ed the host,

which hath been given away all over the nation for these many years, to abuse trade and honest men, which I would not suffer to lye on my table, though it hath been offered me for nothing.

'Not I truly,' said Adams,

I never write any thing but sermons; and I assure you I am no enemy to trade, whilst it is consistent with honesty; nay, I have always looked on the trades|man as a very valuable member of society, and perhaps, inferior to none but the man of learning.

'No, I believe he is not, nor to him neither,' an|swered the host.

Of what else would learning be in a country without trade! What would all you parsons do to clothe your backs and feed your bel|lies? Who fetches you your silks, and your linens, and your wines, and all the other necessaries of life; I speak chiefly with regard to the sailors.

You should say the extravagancies of life,

replied the parson;

but admit they were the necessaries, there is something more necessary than life itself, which is provided by learning; I mean the learn|ing of the clergy. Who clothes you with piety, meekness, humility, charity, patience, and all the other christian virtues? Who feeds your souls with the milk of brotherly love, and diets them with all the dainty food of holiness, which at once cleanses them of all impure carnal affections, and fattens them with the truly rich Spirit of grace?—Who doth this?

'Ay, who indeed!' cries the host;

for I do not remember ever to have seen

any such clothing, or such feeding. And so in the mean time, master, my service to you.

A|dams was going to answer with some severity, when Joseph and Fanny returned, and pressed his depar|ture so eagerly, that he would not refuse them; and so, grasping his crabstick, he took leave of his host, (neither of them being so well pleased with each other as they had been at their first sitting down together) and with Joseph and Fanny, who both expressed much impatience, departed, and now all together renewed their journey.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

Notes

• * 1.1

  In English sprung from a dunghill.
• * 1.2

  It may seen an absurdity that Tattle should visit as she actually did, to spread a known scandal: but the reader may reconcile this, by supposing with me, that notwithstanding what she says, this was her first acquaintance with it.
• * 5.1

  This letter was written by a young lady on read|ing the former.